Craving
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Food-and-drink-related one shots and drabble involving Rose and the Doctor. Because sometimes you've got a craving you just can't stop. 8 cameos, 9/Rose, 10/Rose. Occasional cameos by 11 and his companions.
1. Do You Like Muffins?

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Doctor Who. Which ought to be a crime. **

**This is the start of a short food-related series based on the Doctor and Rose. I'm not sure if I'll keep it solely 9 Rose, or maybe introduce 10 later on. I guess it just depends on my mood. If you have any prompts/ideas, I'm more than willing to hear 'em. I don't have a set number of chapter or anything, so ideas would be…fantastic.**

**Reviews would also be fantastic. So send them my way please!**

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He was doing some routine maintenance on the craft, lying under the consol on his back. The beaten up leather jacket had been slung over a piece of railing in frustration. Frustration that had not been directed toward his beloved ship, rather a certain companion. The sonic screwdriver, along with a few other foreign tool,s rested beside him spread out over some oily rag.

She took one look at him, heart dropping like a stone off the Tower of Pisa. This was all her fault. Sure, everything seemed okay. However, this little "The-TARDIS-needs-some-work-so-I'm-going-to-ignore-you-for –a-couple-of-hours" bit wasn't because the damn machine needed a new router or set of circuits. Well, that could've been part of it. But Rose was fairly certain it was her…unadvisable course of action from the day prior…was the cause of his grumpier than usual. Like he was going through three midlife crisis at once, plus menopause.

No matter how many times she started with a "You know I'm really—" or "Doctor, I—" he would cut her off with a grunt or snappish remark, asking that she hand him this-or-that.

One last attempt to gain some attention (a sigh and a long, searing glance), and Rose stood. If he wasn't going to let her apologize the traditional way, she would just have to be creative. Giving him one last look, the human slipped from the room.

Over an hour later, the Doctor was roused from his mechanical mess, nose tingling.

The smell was familiar. Suspiciously so. But he knew that it, quite obviously, did not belong; it was unnatural to his TARDIS. Following his nose, the Doctor found himself in the kitchen.

The rarely-occupied chamber was a right mess—flour hung in the air, drifting to lazily coat every surface with a fine layer of white, powdery dust. His twenty-third century mixer (a gift from saving some obscure bakery from the wrath of a sugar high Griftin) had been moved and the bowl sat in the sink, filled to the brim with soapy water. An assortment of bottles, boxes and bags littered the once-clean granite countertops. The oven was off, but cracked open to let built-up heat out as thought it had just been used. Banana peels sat on the top of the garbage. And in the midst of it all stood Rose Tyler.

There was a smudge of flour on her right cheek and another on her forehead, the one crinkled in concentration. She wore some long-forgotten apron. It was a yellow print, with bright red cherries dotted across surface. Lace lined the hems. Very girly.

"Rose Tyler, why are you destroying my kitchen?"

The teenager jumped at accusation. She had been entirely focused on filling the tiny, insolent muffin cups that rested on the counter before her.

"Oi!" She huffed, indigently. "I'm destroying nuffin'."

"What's all this, then?" He gave an over-exaggerated gesture to the room at large. "Trying to break the world record on biggest mess in a kitchen, eh?"

"No, nuffin' like that."

"What then?" He crossed over to her, arms crossed. Rose looked up at the alien, mimicking his actions.

"I was cookin' breakfast."

He was a bit floored at this. Usually he did the cooking, or let the TARDIS handle the menu. Rose hadn't so much as touched the stove in her time here. "Why?"

At this, the young woman turned a lovely shade of pink. "'Cos I wanted to."

"Rose."

"I just did, okay?"

"C'mon Rose, what drove you to cook for yourself?"

"I just wanted to. Let you take a break. I was trying to be _nice_."

This was a terrible lie. Terrible simply because Rose was a horrid liar. A lie because of the way she refused to meet his gaze, instead tossing her head and turning back to her paper cups. Using measured motions, she scooped a dollop of batter into each cup.

"Rose, tell me." He commanded. "Did you make…_banana muffins_?"

"It was supposed to be an apology!" She snapped, smacking the spoon on the side of the metal bowl. Ignoring both the irate girl before him and the annoying ringing caused by the bowl, the Doctor forged on. Her moodiness was a surprise, and added to her sudden need to bake, he knew Rose Tyler was discontent. He intended to figure out why by addressing the reasoning behind the first symptom.

"You made banana muffin for me, Rose Tyler?" He was outright grinning. Nobody had ever made him an apology gift before. Well, no one had ever baked him an apology gift. "What for?"

"Oh, like you don't know!"

"No, really I don't."

The girl placed her hands on her hips, glaring up at the 900-year-old alien. He was amazed to see excess water twinkling in her eyes. Unshed tears? What was she crying for? He hadn't yelled at her, called her an ape or anything. "'Cos I disobey you. Nearly got us killed again, yeah? Because I didn't listen."

Now this really stunned him. "You think Nero launching a manhunt throughout Rome was your fault?"

"Well, yeah. It is, iddit?" Now the waterworks had begun. Truth be told, it wasn't a pretty sight. Not only were her eyes red, but her mascara and eyeliner began to clump and streak, sending grayish, watery lines down her soft cheeks.

Shaking his head sympathetically, the Doctor gathered her in his arms, rubbing the her shoulders. "Rose, it wasn't your fault. He just did what was his nature. History wasn't rewritten."

This did not appear to resolve the issue. He rubbed harder, burying his face in her soft hair. "B-but p-pe-people will still _die_!"

He was at a loss for words. How to explain that the most notorious Roman emperor disposed of many in his time, that a few more didn't affect the course of history…"Rose, people were already dying. None of this was your fault. If not you, than somebody else. It's one of those things already written, Rose. Bound to happen."

This did appear to help in a bit. At least, she didn't start crying harder this time. "People are gonna die. 'Cos of what I did."

The Doctor shakes his head. "No, they're going to die because he is a coward. Not because you did the right thing and stood up for yourself."

"Still. I didn't listen to you, and people are—got," She corrected herself before he could. "Hurt. I should've listened."

"Nah. Just proves you can't always listen to daft old me. You did what you thought was right. I can't blame you."

"I was stupid."

"You were brave."

"You could've gotten hurt."

"But I didn't. See?" He held out his arm, the one the legion had gripped so tightly. "Not even a scratch."

"I almost altered the course of history!"

"No, I would've stopped that."

"Doctor!"

"Rose!" He mimics in a falsetto. "You did nothing wrong. Now how are these muffins?"

"I dunno."

He plucked one from the plate that rested on the dining table. Peeling back the paper wrapping, he took a bite. Chewing, he cast a thoughtful glance toward the ceiling. Rose wiped the corners of her eyes, watching him.

"Any good?"

He grinned. "Fantastic."

"Liar."

He held up his hands defensively. "If I didn't know better, Jackie Tyler's daughter had been swapped at birth for you."

Rose laughed, reaching for her own muffin. Slowly tearing off her own wrapper, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. "So…you're not mad."

"Nope. Not a bit."

"Okay."

They ate, avoiding eye contact until:

"Why would you think I was mad?"

Rose shrugged, tossing her paper wrapper in the bin and brushing her hands off on her jeans. "I dunno. It's just…you've been all quiet. Moody. Thought maybe it was somethin' I did."

"No, no Rose. I was…upset. About yesterday."

She crinkled her nose in confusion. "But I thought you said—"

"It wasn't you." He cut across her, arms folding once more. His eyes seared into hers, emotions bluntly stated in those blue orbs. "I was angry at myself. For putting you in danger, once again." There was a harsh laugh that had no humor behind it.

"We're in danger every day." Rose reminded him, edging closer. "Can't think of a single day we're not."

"Yes, but yesterday…yesterday I meant for us to have a break. No running. No deaths. Just a pleasant day in 50 BC Rome."

"When Nero was rulin'?" She teased.

He rolled his eyes heavily. "For your information, Rose Tyler, Nero was known for advancing the arts and trade in his empire. He focused a good deal of his attention on diplomacy and increased the cultural capital of the empire. Brilliant man. His reign included a very successful war and negotiated peace with the Parthian Empire , the suppression of the British revolt and he vastly improving relations with Greece. Well, you know those Greeks, always got something to say about somethin'. The persecutions were highly exaggerated. You know what they say about the victors and writing history. And I thought it was going to be peaceful."

"Right. How 'bout a cuppa tea, then?"

The Doctor sat down, taking another muffin. "Flew right over your head, didn't it?"

Carelessly, Rose filled the kettle and set it on the stove. "Yeah, pretty much."

"You don't appreciate me!" he exclaimed. "Got more than a thousand library's worth of information in my head, me. And you don't make use of it."

"Of course. That's right."

He frowned. It was not like Rose to ignore him. "Rose?"

"Mmm?" She was reading the back of the tea box, completely intent on the brand's promise of quality and fresh taste.

"Oi, I was talkin'!"

"Oh, were you? Sorry." She murmured something beneath her breath that was decidedly rude.

The Doctor grinned. "What was that?"

"I said, 'Like you ever stop.'" Rose repeated in a louder voice.

He paused from his muffin, looking up slowly. Rose had her back turned, fiddling with the stove. He steadily finished off the pastry, then crept up behind his distracted companion. Placing either hand on either side of the counter, effectively trapping her, the Doctor bent to whisper in the human's ear.

"Rose Tyler, like you have any room to talk. You could talk for planet Earth."

She let out a shrill shriek, spinning around to smack the Time Lord who was roaring with laughter. Who promptly stopped laughing to chase the girl who had duck beneath his arms.

He wasn't sure if he was going to catch her (though he probably could, if he really tried). Still, he had a feeling they were going to have a fantastic day.

****

**Does anybody have any ideas for a better title? **

I would love some reviews!


	2. The Things You Pull Me Into

**Chapter 2**

**The Things You Pull Me Into**

She is upset. Hands clenched into fists rest at her side. Eyes are tight with frustration. Her breath is uneven. The Doctor is slightly unnerved by this sight, so he eases into the kitchen slowly, hands unfolded and in front of him, the universal sign for "No-I'm-Not-About-To-Kill-You."

"Rose?" He starts slowly. She is obviously in a delicate state of mind at the moment, he must be careful. Oh, he knew this day would come. Humans have such fragile, breakable minds. Sometime they would just…snap. From shock. From pressure. From fear. Rose had endured quite a lot of that.

Rose glares, eyes boring into the Time Lord's skull. "The only food in this kitchen is either in a can or a box."

The Doctor attempted to keep his jaw from hanging too low, else he'd resemble a cod. "So?"

She crossed her arms, looking too much like Jackie Tyler for his liking. "So? There's nothing fresh, it's all processed and filled with preservatives."

"What's the matter with canned food?"

"It's not healthy!"

"Says the girl addicted to chips." He shoots back mildly. The Doctor is baffled by this problem. What does she want him to do, go shopping?

Yes, that is exactly what Rose wanted.

"Grocery shopping?" Was there anything more domestic?

Yes, apparently, there was. Laundry.

He blanches. He can fold his own boxers, clean the leather jacket, polish his own boots, and hang up his own jumpers, thank you very much. The Doctor tells her as much. Rose giggles briefly at the thought, then snaps back into her stern demeanor.

"Land the TARDIS somewhere with a market, Doctor."

Because he can never say no to her, the Doctor sighs heavily and starts toward the control room, Rose trailing behind. He doesn't ask what year, merely turns a few dials and tugs on several levers. 2023 ought to do it. This could be an adventure…for her, at least. From what he recalls, the food hasn't changed much since Rose's 2004.

Pushing the door to the TARDIS open with some reluctance, the Doctor lead his young companion out into the harsh daylight.

"March 17th, 2023." He rambles off. "Cardiff."

Rose looks up, brows raised.

"Figure we might as well charge her up, as well." He stokes the wooden shell of his beloved ship.

"Where's the nearest market?"

Suppressing a groan, the Doctor sets off toward the nearest green grocer's. Three blocks away. Maybe Rose could change her mind in three blocks. Perhaps she would decide chemicals and preservatives weren't so bad, that boxed food was wonderful. Alas, no. The human's mood automatically brightened at the sight of the auto-open doors and plastic shopping carts. It was truly sickening.

"Rose, we don't have to this." He says quickly. "We can just—just—"

"Order in?" She teases. "C'mere, you big baby. It's just a shop. No big deal, yeah?"

Rose bounds off enthusiastically. The Doctor could feel his age as he followed in a near crawl.

Together, they trotted through the aisles, occasionally pausing to pull something off a shelf or debate over putting a certain item in the cart. Rose learned the Doctor hated anything with beans, adored bananas more than any other fruit (more than four bunches were piled in the cart) and preferred Earl Grey over all other teas. He was surprised to discover his companion's partiality to strawberries, egg rolls, and Italian cuisine as Rose tossed in spaghetti and angel hair pasta, alfredo sauce, roma tomatoes, etc.

She is examining eggs when the old woman approaches. The Doctor eyes her warily. He's had more than one run-in with senior citizens—it was not wise to underestimate them. This one was the grandmotherly sort—puffy, cotton candy-like hair, pastel prints and orthopedic beige shoes. She shuffles over, wrinkly smile upon her lips.

"Hello, my dear. Could you possibly hand me that carton of butter? Yes, that one on the top shelf. Unsalted. Thank you, sweetie."

"S'okay." Rose smiles widely.

The old woman nodded in return. "So sweet of your father, to take you shopping." She says, looking at the Doctor. "You have a beautiful daughter."

He opens his mouth, but nothing will come out. From a mind that knows a billion languages, he can't think of a single word to give this little old lady who made the insane assumption that he, the Doctor was Rose Tyler's-but she is shuffling away now. Well, there was no point.

Rose has one hand clamped firmly on her mouth, shaking from silent laughter. The Doctor glares, crossing his arms indigently.

"Oi, she's old." He hisses under his breath. "Bad eye sight, 'n all."

"Right." Rose let one tiny giggle escape. "S'not the fact you're old enough to be my dad."

"Old, me?" He ought to be offended, but he's grinning like an idiot.

"Most people consider nine centuries ancient."

"Most humans would." He sniffs. "Some other species 'ave lived longer. You done yet?"

"Nearly." She sighs. "One thing left to get, then we can check out. That is, if they still have it in 2023…"

"What?" He demands, grabbing the scrap of paper she has been using for a list. Every item is crossed off except—"Ice cream?"

The image flashes before him of a pigtailed Rose taking a huge lick off of a giant chocolate ice cream, pink tongue dragging its way across the milky surface. He shivers.

"Yeah, gets hot some times on the TARDIS."

He frowns. "Does not. Got perfect temperature control, my ship."

"Maybe in your room, but not in mine."

"Eh, you humans have no control over your body functions. Don't go knocking the ship."

Rose pouts slightly. "What, does this mean you're not letting me get ice cream?"

"Did I say that?" Of course he wouldn't, the idea of turning down the sight of her…

It takes her nearly ten minutes to select a flavor. Then, of course, they must scour the entire store again in the hunt for ice cream cones. Some great idiot didn't have the sense enough to stock them near the ice cream itself. He begins to regret his decision to let her purchase the frozen treats.

Soon they're at the checkout station. The presumptuous old woman is three carts ahead of them, slowly pulling items out of her basket and handing them to the clerk. He should've known it was going to be busy—typical for a Sunday afternoon. Rose is nonplussed, browsing through the tabloids that line either side of the station.

"'The Beatles, Reunited at Last?'" She chokes. "And they've made a 12th Star Wars?"

The Doctor nods absentmindedly, eyes still on the little old lady ahead of them. What does she need a pound of sugar cubes for? And is that…_candyfloss? _If he didn't know better, he'd say she was an Arthoperditheian. In other words, a giant alien ant masquerading as a harmless old woman. They are quite common and relatively easy to spot seeing as they tend to buy vast amounts of sugary foods. He would normally try to expose her (if it is, in fact, a "her") but today is supposed to be a relatively peaceful one, and he is under the impression Rose would be disgruntled if he caused a ruckus before she deposited their foodstuff.

Rose prattles on about the news, and before he knows it, they're at the front of the line. The clerk is of the gothic variety—multiple piercings, excessive eyeliner, black finger nails, etc. He drags their items across the laser check, eyes dull and glazed. Well, his would be too if he worked in a place like this.

The Doctor is staggered by the total, but pays anyways, casting a _"How-Do-You-Manage-To-Talk-Me-Into-These-Sort-Of-Things?" _look Rose's way.

Together, they carry their load back the three blocks to the TARDIS. Once everything is deposited into the kitchen, the Doctor attempts to slip away back into the library only to be halted by a sharp: "Oi! You're eating this too- you can stay here and help."

Of course he could.

**Reviews are my drug, and I am not planning to withdraw anytime soon. Anybody got any prompts?**


	3. Chocolate Gives Love

Chapter 3

Chocolate Gives Love

_How many brands of chocolate could there be on one tiny planet? _He muses as he browses the shelves. Apparently enough to fill one aisle in this grocery store. But not enough to make his decision any easier.

When his young companion requested chocolate he obliged kindly, asking her what brand, flavor, grade, etc. Unfortunately, she hadn't the time to be specific as she drifted back to sleep once more, saying only: "Dark."

Well, there were many kinds of dark chocolate here. How was he to know what kind she preferred? His companion was not the picky sort, but he strived to get her whatever it was she wanted, especially when considering her current state of health. The poor girl had been fine yesterday. Yet when they returned to the TARDIS this afternoon, she began complaining of cramps, exhaustion and an unnatural coolness. Concerned, he sent her to bed (she gave little protest, thank the gods—he didn't want to carry or, gods forbid, drag an unconscious Rose to her room).

He had slipped into the quiet bedroom, careful to not step on any of her possession strewn across the floor. Gently, he placed a hand upon her forehead, pushing back the strands of blonde hair. The Doctor frowned. She was feverish. Sweat made the surface of her pale skin slick. A heating pad lay across her stomach and it was on the highest setting

Rose cracked an eye, so he asked if there was anything she needed. "Chocolate." She whispered through dry lips.

So he was on a quest for dark chocolate. He had stopped on Yaxin 12, the nearest civilized planet. Luckily, they had something that resembled the sweet brown treat, even imported it from Earth. It seemed in the 53rd century chocolate had hit the galaxy by storm.

He hasn't the slightest clue what she would like. The words "dark" and "chocolate" had not been specific enough for his liking.

Does she like nuts? If so, what kind of nuts? Peanuts? Pecans? Almonds? Brazil nuts? No, no one truly likes Brazil nuts. Would she prefer 50 percent or 75? Does she like the Hershey, Nestle, or Wonka brand? And just how much chocolate does he need to get? A few ounces or a couple of pounds? How much chocolate can an average-sized human female eat?

Another five minutes passed when he grabs roughly eight different bags, praying one would be sufficient for his Rose. To heck with the decision, she could live with a few options.

He always said he never did the domestic, yet this boarder on the "2.5-kids-white-picket-fence-TV-dinners" lifestyle he so scorned. How had the human convinced him to do this? She has him wrapped around her pinky finger. The scariest part is, he isn't even sure Rose knows what he can do to him. Because it takes someone special to convince the last Time Lord, the Oncoming Storm, to leave his TARDIS in the middle of the night in an epic search to find _chocolate _for his recovering companion.

He stood the twelve minutes in the checkout station and hurried back to the TARDIS and back to Rose. She hadn't moved much, just flung about the bed. Her status hasn't not changed, either. The Doctor sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hair back. "Rose." He called softly. "I'm back."

She curls into a ball around her pillow, mumbling incoherently. The fuchsia clock on the wall told him he has been gone for just under forty-five minutes.

"Rose, I brought your chocolate. C'mere, silly ape."

Rose groans. "M'sleepy."

"Mmm, I know." He leaned forward to haul her up by her thin elbows, chuckling when she struggled against him. Rose mews in protest. "Eh, I went all the way across the galaxy to find this dark chocolate, and you're going to eat it, Rose Tyler."

"Doctor." The young human moans.

"You need to get up."

She yawns "Rubbish."

Struck with inspiration, her 900-year-old alien unwraps a single square of foil-covered candy to hold it before her nose. Of her own power, Rose sat up bolt straight. The Doctor pushes the small square between her dewy, unlined lips, grinning. Humans make the funniest noises when experiencing delight.

She moaned again. "Oh, that's good."

"There's more," He promises her. "Couldn't decide what you would want so…" The Doctor lifts the plastic bag, shaking its contents.

Rose gives a hoarse laugh. "Wot, did you go and buy the whole store, then?"

To her surprise, the tips of his large ears turn pink. He just grins, popping a cranberry almond square into his mouth. She scoots over to make room, patting the empty space on the mattress. The Doctor hesitates briefly before occupying it. And even before that he took off his jacket (something Rose rarely saw him do) to toss it over the footboard. Even through the denim of his black jeans, he can feel the remaining body heat. Rose leans her head against his leather-clad shoulder. Their breathing slows to match one another's. It seems like they sit there forever, entirely still except for the occasional lurch forward for more chocolate.

Rose was the one to finally break the silence. "Could you…" She lowers her eyes shyly, lashes brushing her cheeks.

"What is it, Rose?"

"Could you get me some water?"

He grins, sliding out of bed to comply. "How do you like it, then?"

"Two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen." The human replies dryly. "And preferably in some sort of a cup."

"Ah, been readin' my chemistry books, have you?"

She playfully punches him in the leg, for it's the closest body part. The Doctor smirks, crossing to the bathroom. Exactly twenty seconds later (and Rose knows, she counted) he returns, bright neon coloured mug in hand—it's one she brought from home. Mickey gave it to her once Christmas, when they were just in grade school. He'd brought it at the church sale. Even though it says _"World's Best Grandma_" in curly purple script and had giant daisies all over the handle, the stupid thing is still her favourite.

"Something you're not tellin' me?" The Doctor asks as he hands her the ludicrous pink nightmare.

"What? Oh." She's almost as dark as the cup now, blushing. "Yeah, Mickey gave it to me for Christmas back in our third year. Didn't see the writing, just knew I liked pink. Silly, ain't it?"

He finds her smiling endearing, with the way her tongue is wedge between two rows of even white teeth. It's cute and young, and perfectly Rose.

"Sweet." He remarks. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Except for these bleeding cramps, yeah."

"Rose, I think I'll enter your symptoms into the disease database in the library. I don't know what you have. Could be something you picked up while travelling, you know. Got to have the proper shots before you do too much of it."

"Are there any vaccines for alien disease?" She teases.

"Where do you think the chicken pox came from? Not Africa, I can tell you that much."

She opens her mouth, then thought better of it. He could be mocking her, but you never knew with him.

"So, I'll run a quick scan, shall I?" He asks, eyes boring into hers.

"Um, no. I rather you not."

"Why?"

"I know what it is," She blurts quickly. "And it's fine. Really. Just a bug. No big deal, yeah?"

His blue eyes grow more intense, narrowing and focusing. "Rose Tyler, this is not 'just a bug.' Let me scan you."

From an interior pocket of his coat, he pulls forth the sonic screwdriver. Before the human girl can budge, he has her hand and his thumb on her pulse point. Obviously intent on getting his way, the Doctor turns it on holding it menacingly close to her wrist.

"No, no…no." Rose pleads. "Listen, if I'm not better by tomorrow you can scan. But let me try to sleep if off first, Doctor."

Suspicious, he raises one brow. She's attempting to pull back her hand, stand firm and look trustworthy all at the same time. The Doctor sizes her up.

"S'not like you can't hunt me down and force me to go to the infirmary if I don't get better. We do live in the same TARDIS. And she'll do whatever you want." Rose vividly recalled an instance when he had been mad at her for taking too long on her hair. The ship had "gone on the blink" and every bathroom had stop receiving power. Needless to say, the Doctor was both pleased and amused while Rose…wasn't.

"No, she doesn't." The alien argues. "Can barely get her to cooperate with me most of the bloody time. Very moody, my ship. As for you—" He stood, eyes still narrowed. "—if you're not better by the end of your sleep cycle, I'm runnin' the tests. No arguments. And no hiding in your bedroom, you daft lark."

"Alright."

"Brilliant. Now get some sleep."

The long hours between Rose's "nights" were boring. He'd gotten along just fine before she'd shared this ship with him. However, he found himself counting down the hours to her consciousness, trying to find something to occupy the empty time. For the most part, reading or making repairs on the TARDIS. Occasionally he would utilize the library's pool. Or make Rose breakfast. Whatever struck his fancy, honestly.

Tonight he could not, for an indescribable reason, take his mind off of his ill companion. The Doctor felt like some mutated Mother Hen, worrying all the time about his perfectly capable companion. Well, not _completely _capable. She is horridly jeopardy-friendly. Can't take her anywhere without risking their lives. But that's part of her charm. His lovely Rose Tyler.

To be fair, he waited four hours before breaking down and going to the database in the infirmary. Powering the thing up, he considers Rose's symptoms. They weren't anything terribly life-threatening. He typed in her symptoms and waited for the scan to complete. In exactly three-point-eight seconds, the computing system gave an enthusiastic _"ding!" _The Doctor ran through the results. Nothing seemed promising…stomach bug, Anagolian tripe flu, the Thykatian thyroid swelling-cold…menstrual cycle.

The words weren't bolder than any of the others, yet the screamed from the page. Oh…oh my. Rose was…Rose has…

This time his ears weren't the only things pink. It was only his face, but the Doctor felt like his entire body was burning from embarrassment.

Why, why, _why _hadn't he listened when Rose told him to drop it? She had given him such a perfect out.

The next morning found the Doctor's human companion in the kitchen, frying potatoes and bacon. Rose was rather concerned. She'd been awake for nearly two hours and hadn't seen her 900-year-old alien yet. Odd. He typically was the one in here, making food for them. Good food, too. Rose didn't mind cooking every once in a while. She had no problem pulling her own weight around the TARDIS. Still, the Doctor was the better cook, and she had no problem admitting it.

She turns down the heat to shove, beginning to humming to herself. Now all there's left to do is the eggs. He prefers his fried.

A cough sounds from the doorway. "I like 'em fried, thanks."

Rose half-glances at the Doctor, grinning. She didn't need a reminder.

"Good to see you're up, Sleeping Beauty."

"I wasn't asleep—"

"Superior physiology, yeah, yeah. Hear it every time, Doctor."

He has a quiet expression running across his features. Rose, concerned, steps up to feel his forehead.

"Are you alright?"

He nods, looking toward the ground.

"Hungry? You look a little peakish."

"Yeah. How are you?"

Rose threw him an easy smile. "Wonderful. Sleep did me good." She flips his egg (hard, which made complete sense) and poked her own (over-easy). He slunk into the room, pulling up a chair. Watching Rose was something of a habit he'd developed over the last thirteen months. She was a curious specimen—innocent, inquisitive, completely trusting. Most took their time adjusting to his ship—not Rose. She threw herself into the day-to-day life with gusto, eager to explore the library, the observatory, the greenhouse, the laundry mat. Yes, Rose was very easy to observe.

"No trouble, then?" The Doctor inquires softly. "Nothing hurting?"

"Nothing." Rose agrees. "So, no need to run those tests, yeah?"

"Absolutely no need." He confirms. "None. In fact, I would go so far as to say, I don't want to know."

She gave him a funny look. "No, I don't think you would. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, Rose."

"Not—"

"Rose, I'm fine."

The Doctor ate his breakfast in a fair amount of silence, firmly refusing Rose's suggestion that tomato juice would be lovely with his potatoes.

**The poor, poor Doctor. He puts up with so much. **

**I've got two more chapter ideas lined up, but if you happen to have any ideas or prompts, by all means included then with your review that I know you're about to write for me. I do hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for reading!**


	4. Beyond Basic Birthday

Beyond Basic Birthday

Who ever had the grand idea of putting the swimming pool in the library deserved a medal. And a cake. Rose Tyler could think of nothing better to do with her time on the TARDIS than lazy about the poolside, eating cake (red velvet, her very favourite) and reading an obscure text related to the last planet she visited. Their destination had been entirely the Doctor's idea and their abduction had been entirely her fault, though he would never admit it.

He had been very insistent this morning that she relax, claim: _"The Evacorrian sedatives you got yesterday were bloody strong, and there is no way I'm taking you anywhere if there is even a 1 per cent chance that they're still in your system. So we'll just wait a few days and you'll be as right as rain. Typical, Rose Tyler, always havin' to wait for your delicate human body to catch up to my superior physiology…oi, it's not my fault I've a better evolutionary design than you! I certainly can't help it. Well, I suppose I could but _that _would be a very dangerous process. Not to mention painful. Still, can't lie to you, it is possible. Well, _nearly _possible. Got a few bug to work out, few settings to tweak. Right, where was I? Ah, yes! Relax, today. Can you do that for me?"_

In the end she'd given a very dizzy "yes," knowing that her dizziness was not a result of any sedatives, but rather a very talkative Time Lord. He wasn't kidding when he said he had a gob.

When the Doctor told her they were going to a forest planet for a picnic, Rose had imagined a quaint, quiet afternoon of sandwiches, lemonade and crisps. He promised mild weather and great views. Hostile natives had not been in plan. Neither had the abduction. Rose may have _accidently _sat upon their goddess, which greatly resembled a lawn chair. She has assumed the Doctor brought it out.

Bad assumption.

The lizard-like creatures hadn't stopped to explain the human's horrendous error, but instead chose to sedate her and take her to their camp-they were on a hunting expedition. Rose was an appealing creature, easily strung before an open fire.

It was nearly four hours before the Doctor found her, and another two between his own capture and their joint escape. During which he lectured her on the importance of not wandering off, and not sitting on the relics of primitive alien civilizations. Had they been walking rather than sprinting for their lives, Rose would have had no problem hitting him squarely on the shoulder.

So he was letting her take a much-needed break. Her entire body felt heavy, weighted down by some unseen force. The Doctor, who had been similarly drugged, was perfect fine, perfectly normal, thank you very much. He was as bouncy as ever, which made her loath the Time Lord even more.

However, his peace offering had decreased her wraith in some measure-the cake was fantastic. Rose found it in the crystal dome cake plate in the TARDIS's kitchen. Iced with a cream cheese frosting, there were tiny, pink marzipan roses framing the circle. She was impressed. It was very artistic for the Doctor, almost fluffy. Still, he'd become far more domestic in this version. Perhaps he'd taken up baking as a hobby. She couldn't complain if he had-her cooking wasn't anywhere near this level of tastiness. And he could stand to pitch in occasionally.

The cake was wonderful. Heavenly smooth, not too sweet. It was light on her fork. Rich, but not so much as to cause her to become ill. The texture made her want to cry. This cake was to be savored. Gods, he was a virtuoso baker. 900 years must've paid off somewhere.

Rose decided she might just faint if she didn't stop now. Or, at the very least, pause briefly to cleanse her palate. The pool sparkled in library's artificial light. Very tempting. She didn't feel like an actual swim, but just a quick dip of her feet.

Pulling off her trainers and shoes, Rose rolled up the fabric of her sweat pants to immerse her feet into icy water of the pool. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and tossed back her head. All she needed was a bit of sun, really. But there was nothing else. Things were…

"Eh, I didn't know there was cake! Great cake, too."

Rose cracked one eye to see the Doctor sitting beside her, prop up on pinstripe-clad elbows. A pair of sunglasses sat on the bridge of his nose. She stifled a laugh. "Are those necessary?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'necessary.' I mean, it's all relative, isn't it? Really, if you want to—"

Rose had finally noticed the cake and fork sitting on his lap, both smudged with the remainders of a white, creamy icing. "You ate my cake!"

"Oh, yes." The Doctor said distantly, distracted by another train of thought. He removed his sunglasses, tucking them into one of his enlarged pockets. "Like I said, it was lovely."

"It was mine!"

"Yes, well, you left it unguarded, didn't you? And I didn't see you name on it, Rose Tyler."

Rose huffed. Struck with inspiration, she kicked her feet and sent about a gallon of water his way. The Doctor let out a fairly girlish squawk, ducking. But it was all too late; he was drenched from his wild mop of hair to his stark white Converse. Rose's laughter echoed through the cavernous library, eventually mingling with the soaked Time Lord's own cackle.

"Oooh, I'm going to get you for that one, Tyler. Between giving up on the new, new me and getting yourself possessed by a natty old piece of skin, you're in for it."

"Please, wasn't my fault. Somebody forgot to tell me about their little regeneration hitch. And whatever 'appened in that New Earth hospital…I can't help it. I can barely remember."

This struck his interest. "Really, you can't? Well, I didn't see that coming. I can. Crystal clear. Brilliant, my ability to retain memory. Do you remember what you did to me?"

"No." Her forehead creased adorably, nose crinkling. "Wot, then? Finally deck you as I should 'ave the week before?"

"Noooo." He extended the word deviously, grinning. "Nope. Nothing quite so violent."

She tried again."What did I do, Doctor?"

His only reply was a wide grin as he licked the remaining icing off her fork, pushing back a few wet locks that had started to paste themselves to his forehead. Probably from all that hair gel. The Doctor insisted that his hair was naturally that wild, something Rose hadn't doubted until she used his bathroom one day and found what was practically a vat of styling cream, not to mention a variety of other hair care products. The old him would've never been so vain. Daft old face, and all that. Never changed once, even if they stopped by ancient Rome, or some planet where leather was considered sinful. Very stuck in his ways. Very un-New-New-Doctor.

"C'mon. What did I do to you?"

"Nothing I didn't deserve." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Rose couldn't tell if he was kidding, or being serious flirtatious. Come to think of it, he had become a tad more flirty since they'd left New Earth….

"You make a fantastic cake, by the way," The Doctor added, looking down mournfully to the empty plate. "Not too sweet, light on the tongue. Fantastic idea, by the way, adding the extra teaspoon of vanilla. Really brought something to the table. Or, I suppose, the plate. But I'm thinking—"

"I didn't make that cake." Rose interrupted.

"What?"

"Yeah, I didn't. I found it on the counter, in the kitchen. Under the crystal dome thingy you always used to put pastries in. I thought maybe you made it."

"Me? No, no, no. I mean, I can bake. But I didn't make this. Are you sure you didn't?"

She rolled her eyes heavily, giggling. "I think I'd remember making a cake, Doctor."

The Doctor shook his head, sending droplets of cold pool water flying. "You never know. The sedative could be still in your system, playing with your mind."

"Honestly, Doctor. I didn't make any cake."

Their eyes meet briefly. He holds her gaze, sheer concern unmasked. "I believe you."

"Then who-?"

"I don't know."

Rose bit her lower lip, withdrawing her legs from the pool. She crossed them and scooted to face the Time Lord. "Is this dangerous? Could it 'ave been…poisoned, or something? Tampered with?"

"I don't know." He took a breath. "But I do know one thing."

"What?"

"We're probably better off not eating any more of it. Or anything in the TARDIS, really, until we've figured out where this mysterious cake came from."

Rose loved it when he said _"we." _Because she knew that, in the end, he would be the one to figure it out. But still. He never made her feel like she was some assistant. Her Doctor never made her feel anything less than his equal. When he spoke to her, nearly Rose forgot she was a 19-year-old girl shop girl from Powell Estates with no A-levels and no prospect.

"And I don't want you to wander off. I know it's the TARDIS, but we don't know if anything has gotten in, or if there has been some system malfunction."

She nodded. Of course, that made perfect sense.

He stood, dusting off invisible dirt (the TARDIS floors were never dirty, for some magical reason), straightening his jacket and offering a pair of hands to his young companion. Rose reached to accept the help, only to stop herself, a confused expression across her face.

"Doctor, what was it again I did to you on New Earth?"

The Time Lord groaned, throwing up a hand to cover his eyes. "Rose, we really don't have the time—"

"We're in a time machine, so shut it."

"But seriously, we can't wait to take care of this—"

"I'm waiting." She sang. "And I'm not helping you until I know."

He looked at her helplessly. "Do you really not remember? You can't recall a single thing?"

"Nope." Rose popped the "p" as he often did, glad to be just as irritating for once. "Not a clue, Doctor. So, what happened? If I didn't deck you, I must've done something else awful, like kissed…" Hazel eyes went wide at the sight of his expression. "That's what I did?" She squeaked.

"Indeed." He didn't know if he ought to look guilty or smug. Things of this nature tended to fluster him. Funny, really. He could be a complete smart ass to Daleks, frighten the worst monsters with mere words but when it came to Rose… So he settled on a smirk.

"Oh…I…"

"It's alright Rose, I understand. Many have been driven to lust after being in the presence of a Time Lord such as myself. It was only a matter of time."

"Git."

"You liked it."

"So did you, apparently."

"What?" He would've sounded offended, but even he couldn't pull that off. "Why ever would you have that impression?"

Now it was Rose's turn to smirk. "I don't know, Doctor. All I know is, we don't have time for this. After all, there is an intruder on board leaving mysterious cakes. We haven't the time to stand around arguing the laws of attraction between Time Lords and humans, do we?"

"Quite right," He murmured. "So, kitchen, eh? Allons-y!"

There wasn't any sort of clue or indication of a visitor in their cooking and dining facility. Nor in the bathrooms, medical bay, ballroom (when Rose questioned the necessity of such a place, the Doctor merely shrugged and said who was he to judge the practicality of a ballroom on a time travelling space ship?), greenhouse, gardens, observatory, study, parlor, theater, game room, wardrobe, gym or personal bedrooms. The exploration finally ended in the consol room, where the pair sank into the double captain's chair, exhausted.

"That took forever."

"I know. It would've been so much easier to run a life signal scan from…" He caught Rose's eye guiltily. "Whoops. Suppose that would've been best to try first, instead of a examining twenty percent of the TARDIS?" The Doctor hopped up to consol screen.

"That was only twenty percent?" Rose asked interestedly. Truth be told, she didn't mind checking out the various rooms of the TARDIS. She'd been here nearly a year and a half and hadn't been in a good third of those room once during her entire stay.

"Yes, the rest is…under maintenance. So, let us see, let us see. Ah, there we go!" Statistics flashed up, brightening the screen with a golden background. "Two life forms, not including the TARDIS herself and the gardens." The Doctor frowned. "Odd. And not helpful. Didn't explain a thing."

"What does it mean, Doctor."

"I…I dunno." He scratched his chin and tugged on one ear, frown deepening. "It can only mean one of us made the cake. The plants certainly can't. And the TARDIS…."

He spun to face the center column of his ship, laughing. "You! You clever thing, you! Oh, of course. Why hadn't I seen it before? Makes perfect sense. Absolutely brilliant, you clever ship. My lovely, clever ship."

"Doctor?" Lord, he was all but kissing the thing, stroking and hugging all stroke-and-huggable bits. "The TARDIS, what did it—"

"She."

"—she do?"

"Rose Tyler," He started proudly. "My ship made you a cake. Happy Birthday!"

Rose was basically floored. "It's my birthday?"

"Well, yes, I suppose it is. The TARDIS certainly thinks so, and she's hardly wrong. Well, not usually wrong. Almost never. So yes, Rose, today is your birthday. Happy twenty-first."

The human stared. Computing the fact that a ship had made her a cake for a birthday she didn't even realize she was having was fairly difficult. It meant the machine had emotions, a sense of duty almost. Rose had always held the firm belief the TARDIS was a magnificent piece of machinery that had a soul. Yet even this exceeded her expectations. This wonderful ship had made her a simple offering, one that meant so much.

"I'm…twenty-one." Rose said faintly.

"Oh, yes." The Doctor beamed. "Twenty-one! A landmark, for you humans. Congratulations. What do you want? A trip—anywhere you want, Rose, anytime you want! No," He mused. "I've already given you that. Afternoon in at the spa? Vextus IV has one of the best, I've heard. But then again, half the planet suffers from severe tension and stress. Comes from the consistency of their atmosphere, but a great deal of pressure on their chest. They need spas! Practically a requirement to live their—something beyond the typical food, shelter, liquid, you know-"

"You forgot?"

"Hm? No, I was just telling you about it, Rose, weren't you listening?"

"My birthday?"

The Doctor shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Well, Rose, you didn't even remember, did you? Can't blame a Time Lord for…I mean it's a time ship. Things get…fuzzy."

"You forgot." She accused.

"Rose," He started. "I'm sorry. Truly am. I'll make it up to you, anyway I can. Whatever you want."

Rose held eye contact for a full forty-five seconds before saying mildly. "It's okay. I can't expect you to remember everything, Time Lord or no. Seriously, how can I assume you to when I don't even recollect it?"

The anxious Time Lord let out a puff of air in relief. Ah, his Rose. Always willing to forgive.

"But," She continued. "I will take you up on your offer of _'whatever I want.'_"

He visibly paled, backing into the TARDIS consol as his Rose prowled forward. Her expression was intense, focused on a single thing. A single thing traced with one finger once she stood before him, bodies pressed together. Both hearts began to drum out a tango. He prayed her hearing wasn't perceptive enough to catch the embarrassing noise.

The way her fingers moved lightly across his lips made his quiver with something more than pent-up energy. This regeneration had some oral fixation, a need to taste things perhaps did not need tasting. Rose was clearly one of these things. Forbidden. Beautifully so.

She moved forward, lips hovering a hair's breathe above his heated skin. Her eyes were closed. The Doctor's would be too, only…he wanted to savor this. Rose tilted closer, if that was possible. Air forced from her sweet lungs tickled his face. Gods, she was brilliant. Beautiful, beautiful Rose…now. It was going to be now. He leaned forward, finally closing his eyes and—

His lips met with harsh, empty air while his ears caught the laughter of his human companion. Rose was clear across the room, having skipped from his arms the moment he closed his eyes. Those hazel eyes sparkled.

"Tease." He managed to breathe out. This only caused her to giggle all the harder. "Oh, Rose Tyler you are in for it now."

"Nah." Her smile was downright heartbreaking. "It's my birthday. The only thing I'm in for is another slice of cake and a trip to—what was it again?—Vestux VII?"

Rose, in the end, was right. She did receive another slice of birthday cake and she was given an all-expense-paid trip to Vextus IV. But not before the Doctor flung himself across the room to snog her quite senseless. She was certain this had been her best birthday. The trip was lovely, the cake completely delicious, and the kissing the best of her life. Yes, "forgetting" what transpired on New Earth had certainly been worth it.

**I like to believe Rose was on the ship for at least two years. And the year she missed counted legally—though not physically. So this would be her twenty-first birthday. Thanks for the reviews, keep 'em coming! **


	5. Neon Moon

**Neon Moon**

**Zarya: This one is for you! I wasn't quite sure about the last bit, but I did put in the location, the year, and the onion. Thanks so much for the reviews and the prompt! Btw, I am actually an American who just uses British spellings. Sorry for the confusion.**

**Sorry, but this one is a tad darker. Still, it has its moments of comic relief. All in all, I am pleased. **

**NOTES: Okay, school has started back up so updates are going to be far and few between. Ditto for ideas SO prompts would be amazing! Anything from location, year, food, etc. I can work with anything! Thank so much for the reviews and alerts. Keep them up!**

Neon lights line the perimeter of the ceiling. Chrome covers many of the rounded surfaces, and black glittering stone the flat. Pendant lights sparkle, music swells with woodwinds, the scent of foreign foods floats lazily about the restaurant much like a cat on an overcast, humid summer day. A day much like the one outside—past the hovering vehicles and metallic building that pricked the skyline, she could see the clouds clearly heavy with rain.

Rose didn't mind the weather. The Doctor had apologized once they exited the TARDIS. Things weren't perfect, and he was sorry for it. She, on the over hand, smiled, squeezed his hand and told him perfect was overrated. Cloudy weather is a fact of life. Rose knows. And she loves the gloomy weather.

The year 2099. It was his idea, one she can't help but find completely brilliant. He has taken her to December 31st, 2099. New Year's Eve. Nearly one hundred years in her future.

"Things have changed." He says, fiddling with his painted chop sticks. Earlier in the meal the Doctor had pulled them out of one of his never-ending pockets, claiming that were not Earth eating utensils but honorary hair sticks given to him by the Supreme Counsel of Welbly. Chipped paint and faded gold leaf indicate their age. They match his character; weary, well-worn, beautiful and old and still in use.

"The world powers have been vastly altered—Britain, America and Russia have lost their grip, though mind, they still have some sway. Japan and China have stepped up as the new international police, along with South Africa. It's a very Eastern World, these days. Tokyo is the new Paris, and Paris is the new Rome: a relic. And the transportation these humans use! Borrowed from an Utherian shuttled that crashed near a Toyota plant. Well, wasn't so much of a crash. More like a kid's joy ride. But it explains why Japan suddenly becomes a super power. "

Rose nods. "So, things have gone all…?"

"Digital? Sonic? Neon?" He gestures to the multicoloured lights surrounding their secluded table."Bit of an 80s flash back, to be honest. 1980s, mind you. Not 2080s."

She stifles a chuckle. "Not what I was going to say. I was thinking 'hover-y.'"

The Doctor grins. "'Hover-y?' Now that's a new word. Rose Tyler, I do believe you're created an entirely new term for the mode of transportation the average two-thousand-and-ninety-ian prefers."

"Well, it is all hover-y, yeah?"

"Yeah." He agrees. "Very hover-y. All fun, but not a TARDIS by any means."

"Mmmm, looks like a much smoother ride."

"Oi! I resent that. My ship is a model TARDIS. It's the rough ride that adds character, Rose, I'll have you know."

"You certainly 'ave a lot of character."

He beams. "Ten people worth, actually."

The food is rather difficult to eat. She finds that she isn't nearly as adept with chopsticks as she had been in her youth. Everything is unfamiliar. Basic, recognizable, but still odd. She wonders if nearly one hundred years could've changed the food so much. But then Rose realizes she hasn't ever really had authentic Japanese cuisine—in her old life she'd stuck to the tradition because it was cheap. Once, when she was a kid Jackie had taken her to France. The down side was her current (and boorish) boyfriend was footing the bill. There, they'd eaten a lot of local foods. Cheap, but French, food.

He explains that the thin grayish noodles are _Soba_. There is a simple fish soup, which the Doctor declares is very fresh and very good. She likes the _okazu, _a side dish of veggies, chicken and tofu. Surprising, since she's always disliked tofu thoroughly. So far, the best parts have been the noodles, and the rice topped with boiled new spring onions. Very simple, and very tasty.

From the way his eyes shine, she can tell he is excited. Happy to share this with her. The Doctor is a generous alien. He gives new experiences to humans without the means to escape from their own lives through travel like some intergalactic Santa Claus. He sometimes claims that it's selfish, saying he takes people not for their sake, but for his own want for company. The Doctor will say they're there to banish the loneliness. Still, Rose knows he gets a great kick out of showing her things beyond her wildest imagination. That's a big part of the adventure, for him. Being a teacher, being a mentor, being a friend.

"Here, try…this?" the Time Lord hold forth a strip of white flesh. It looks soft, almost inedible. He offers the strip up to her lips. Rose accepts. The meat is tender, yet rubbery and it's heavily salted. She's not sure what she thinks. The taste is unique.

"What is it, then? Squid?" She's teasing, but his manic grin worries her.

"Noooope. Octopus in a vinegar and soy sauce."

Rose makes a face—one that doesn't portray pleased emotions or taste buds. "Ew."

"Oh, c'mon. Wasn't that bad. I'm rather fond of them myself," He tucked into a whole bowl of the stuff, dropping one plump piece into his mouth. "and they have loads of vitamins."

"Do they really?"

"No, actually. Well, I haven't really checked. But sounds better, doesn't it?"

She would hit him, perhaps, if there wasn't a table dividing them. As if he's reading her mind, the Doctor shoots her and apologetic grin then sets himself to finishing his bowl of octopi.

"So, what is all this?" Rose asks after a few minutes of silence. She waves her sticks around, evidently indicating the room. "An 80s revival?"

"Ah, no. They're just into their neon lights. And neon colours. And neon-sparkle-infused leggings."

She doesn't even have to ask, but gives him the look that clears states _"Either-you're-pulling-my-leg-or-just-trying-to-get-my-attention-but-either-way-out-with-it."_ The Doctor clears his throat and explains the latest fade of the 2090s.

"The spandex is infused with miniature lights that change colour. Very glittery. Very in. Quite attractive. I'd wear them myself if it weren't for their tendency to spark."

"And not for any gender-related reason? "

He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, that too."

She wrinkles her nose. "I think I'll stick to my traditional tights, thanks."

"Alliteration, ha! More rice?"

"Mmm, yeah. Put more of those spring onion on, eh? Tea?"

"Do I even need to answer that one?"

Rose rolls her eyes and pours more into their tiny cups. It is green tea, flavoured with ginseng. The Doctor seems to be quite infatuated, but Rose isn't sure what to think. The taste is certainly different. Not necessarily bad…different.

She goes back to staring out the window, utterly fascinated with the metropolis of technology. Out of her line of sigh, the Doctor smiles. He's glad to indulge her request to dine "_some where we won't have to run, hop, skip, gallop, skate, swim, slide, jump or fly for our lives, please."_ Theoretically, finding a peace planet or era to eat shouldn't be so difficult. But they're always the exception to every rule of that nature—no matter where they'll stop, trouble of some nature finds them. He wonders if bad luck seeks them out purposefully.

Japan, 2099 seems the best bet. The meal has, so far, gone without a hitch. Well, the conversation has been a tad…lacking. Rose is being really too quiet. By now she's usually weighed him down with a couple dozen questions. However, today she is doing more observing than anything verbal. Has she spoken less, since his regeneration? He knows his former self was the brooding, moody sort and that perhaps her talkative nature was brought forth by need to banish the silence, to form a bond. Now that he's got a magnificent gob, she's not nearly as forthcoming with words. It's an…adaptation, he decided. Or hopes.

Because they always go quiet, near the end.

The ones that leave grow thoughtful before their departure. They tend to spend a great deal of time thinking. Pondering what will happen to their everyday lives if they leave him, alone on this great old ship.

But no. No, Rose isn't thinking about that sort of thing at all, he's certain of it.

"What are you thinking about?"

He can't believe he chanced asking it. Normally he doesn't bother with the emotional chats about their feelings.

There is a pause as she opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "I'm thinking about the future."

"The one you're in now?" He grins cheekily.

"No, more like our future…" she allows vaguely. "All this traveling, and stuff."

For a moment, both of his hearts freeze. "What do you mean?" Surely she isn't considering leaving. It cannot be that. Rose doesn't want to leave, she's just promised him forever—

"I was just thinking about it. Grow old, on the TARDIS. You know." But he doesn't. Rose is entirely oblivious to the panic in his eyes, how his entire body's grown tense. She's picking at the rice, sipping the lukewarm tea.

"Rose…"

"Mmm?" She looks up finally to see the fear hidden behind the mask of calm. It takes only an instant. "What? Oh…no." The human drifts off, then reaches across the tiny, wobbly table to take both of his hands. "No, no, I didn't mean anything like that. I was just thinking about it. You know, what it's going to be like when I'm 'running' for my life in a walker. If we're going to have to install one of those toilet bars. Things like that. Not…leaving."

He feels sacred air rush back to his screaming lungs. Her palms are warm against his, and he can feel the cold metal of her ring on the back of his hand. Looking down, he sees the diamond, black opal and moonstone wink at him, reflecting those horrid neon lights. Nothing has changed. She promised forever.

Now it's his turn to be quiet, prompted by her small speech. Will she end up in a walker? Will she live long enough to see legs crippled by age? He hopes so, but with their dangerous lifestyle….

Rose won't stay forever young. She'll age and break and die. He has got to accept that.

The Doctor clears his throat and releases her hands. "I'm sure we can find you some sort of hover chair. Got to have one around somewhere."

The smile she shots him is beautiful. "I figured you would, old man."

"Oi! On many planets, it is considered rude to remind your elders of their age. Besides, 900 years is considerably young. Could be worse. Could be a million." The Doctor stands, holding out one boney, slim hand to his human companion. The only one to promise forever. "Shall we, Miss Tyler."

Just as he thought, she giggles and accepts. "We shall."

"Good, because I've heard that the New Year's Eve of 2099 was one of the best. Great fireworks, music, the whole bit. _Allons-y_?"

Rose squeezes his hand as they step outside of the restaurant and into the night air. They linger on the hovering patio, eyes transfixed on one another. Her cheeks are flush and he can feel the blood rushing through her veins at a breakneck pace.

"That would be fantastic."

**There we go! **

**The ring bit is inspired by LunaLovegood5's "Lost and Found" one shot. It's a very heartbreaking, cute piece I highly suggest. **

**Please, keep up with the great reviews! **

**~Dania**


	6. Won't

"I'm not going to eat it."

"Honestly, it doesn't taste that bad. A little gooey, perhaps."

"No."

"And maybe rubbery. I'm not sure if that's the word…hm. Rubbery. Rub-bbbery. Rhubrie."

"You can't make me."

"Yep. Rubbery. A little slick going down the esophagus, I'll admit. But really, Rose, they're not _that _bad."

"'m not eatin' anything that colour. S'not natural."

"I swear, you'll be surprised."

"Probably tastes like castor oil."

"Don't knock it till you try it, Rose."

"I'm not tryin' it, Doctor."

"Rose."

"Doctor."

"Just…one bite."

"No."

"You've got to respect their traditions. You'd be insulting their entire culture if you didn't."

"You ate some, you respected 'em 'nough for both of us."

"Rose, you know it doesn't work that way."

"No, I am _not _eatin' any of that!"

"Really, just a bit won't hurt."

"Can't make me."

"…..Well, now that's not childish or anything."

"Still not eatin' it."

"C'mon. One bite, Rose?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"What if…I let you adopt that kitten?"

"What?"

"Yeah. The one we saw at the pet shop on Nivven last week. Begged and begged, you did. Practically on your knees, crying. "

"A kitten…for eating this?"

"Sure."

"S'trick, yeah? I'm going to vomit this up, or we'll go back and the cat's already died?"

"Noooo, no. No. Cross my hearts, you eat this we'll get you that cat."

"Honestly?"

"Rose Tyler, would I lie to you?"

"Oh, let's see, locking us in the TARDIS and sending us back to the future…"

"Oi! That was for your safety, it was!"

"Pretending to be ill last week, making me cook dinner… "

"Well, that was your own fault, really. How many times do I have to tell you? _Superior Time Lord physiology."_

"Told me them boxers was yours, once."

"…What?"

"Yeah, that time I did the laundry. Those weren't yours! Jack got really mad, right, 'cause I gave him those tighty-whiteys."

"Rose, those…I mean, that…."

"So, a kitten."

"…yeah. A kitten."

"Promise?"

"Yep."

"Okay."

"…Was that so bad?"

"I deserve that damn cat."


	7. The Lesser of Two Evils

**To answer a few questions about the last chapter, I don't exactly recall what the food was. Possibly blue bananas. Or squid-y things. I don't recall. It was late. **

**This is unbeta-ed.**

**A moment. Not really funny, or sad, or anything. Just a moment. **

**9/Rose. He mentions regenerations, so it's kinda AU.**

"I thought maybe—"

"Rose, I'm thinking."

She falls silently, watching his brow furrow intently. Minutes pass as he stares at the slanted script, the perfect calligraphy that would, ultimately, decided the rest of his evening.

After he ordered, he sat back to grin at Rose. Her eyes matched the waitress's own wide orbs, though, unlike their server, her jaw was also hitting the table. Well, nearly.

"What?" He's entirely confused. Did he mispronounce something? Get cheese on his jumper? Mess up his hair? No, wait, this body didn't have much to mess up.

Rose's expression is a cross between humor and horror. Both hands sit open in her lap. "Did you just order banana cheesecake, a double-chocolate brownie volcano and tiramisu?"

"Didn't you just hear me?" The Doctor frowns. "Yeah, with extra fudge sauce on the brownie. They tend to skimp, and love fudge, me."

She shook her head, still in shock. He had just put away a prime rib, a baked potato, one huge house salad, a cheese course, a plate of artichoke hearts (their shared appetizer) and two glasses of merlot. Now he was tucking into not one, but _three _desserts? She had been sure he would turn the server down when the final menu was order. But no, he'd practically jumped on the chance, snatching the card. Where was he putting all of it?

"But…why?"

He looks surprised. "I like sweets. And the tiramisu is for you-they make the best here, in all of the near five solar systems. Layer it just right. To die for. Thought I'd regenerate right there, first time I tried it."

"Thank you." Rose folds her hand. "But still, two?"

"Well, no reason to skimp when you're in the best restaurant in universe of this century and the next." He twirls one of the heavy silver forks between his two leathery hands. "Though I might not eat the cheesecake. Sounds more like breakfast, eh? Have 'em box it up."

"You never sleep," She points out. "So it's technically not breakfast."

He ignores this statement, instead casting an eye to the kitchen. "Should be here soon. They're fast, for humans."

"It is the twenty-fifth century. And we are the only patrons."

"True." The Doctor concedes. "Still, when people were still here, they were fairly prompt."

Rose frowns, reaching across the table to gently tug the fork from his fingers. "How long 'ave we been here? More than two hours, yeah?"

"Three and a half." The answer is given breezily.

She swears her eyes will get strained one of these days. Or sprained. Or something dangerously painful. All of this wide-eyed staring cannot be good for anyone.

"S'okay." She says softly. "Honestly, three and a half?"

"Well, more like three and thirty-two minutes, eighteen seconds, five milliseconds and—"

Rose laughs. "Alright! Got it, I got it."

He grins manically. "We'll be out of here in a mo'. Promise."

"Not if you insist on two desserts!"

He considers. "I'll make you a deal—you make breakfast tomorrow, I'll eat only one."

"Wasn't the other going be breakfast?"

"Ah, lunch then. And tea."

Rose thinks. "Yeah. Fair."

The Doctor solemnly offers forth a hand, and they shake. Rose settles back into her seat, seeing the server approaching their table from the corner of her eye with a heavily laden tray balanced on one arm. Their food is set upon the table. She watches as he pushes her tiramisu across the satin surface of the table, then arrange his own plates just so. Occasionally he'll get spurts of OCD. Tonight was apparently one of those nights.

"So, which one is it?"

He looks up. "Hmm?"

"Which dessert?"

"Ah." His intense gaze returns to the confections. "Tough question, Rose. Then again, you're always giving me those, eh?"

The pink-and-yellow human grew even more pink at this comment. "Sorry—" She begins quickly, but he cuts her off.

"So, the question of the hour: banana cheesecake or double-chocolate volcano?"

"Fudge is hot." Rose offers. "Probably be best first."

"True." He falls silent once more, face growing blank with concentration. Rose finally can't take it and stands.

"I'm going to use the facilities. Better decided by time I get back. This was supposed to only take a mo', yeah?" She says firmly. "Be right back."

Upon her return seven minutes later, both of his plates have disappeared. A carefully tied box rests on his lap.

"Which did you choose?" Rose asks, sitting to scoop up her last bite of tiramisu. The Doctor shifts his box to grin.

"Banana cheesecake." He announces.

"Why?"

"The lesser of two evils, Rose." He taps his stomach, which is perfectly flat. "Don't need any more calories me."

**Reviews are very welcome. And thanks for all the feedback so far. Keep it up! I hope you've liked this chapter. Sorry it's so short. **

**Updates won't be so frequent-I'm stage manager for an upcoming show, so things will be rather random.**


	8. Pizza Pie and One Nice Arse

The string hangs between the thin crust and his motionless lips, distinctly swinging from the vibrations of his voice. She is very, very tempted to remove the greasy cheese and replace it with her lips. But that won't do. He'll probably tell her to shove off, explain with a million reasons in one sentence why they should never, _ever_…

The thing that really gets her is the fact that the pizzeria actually _delivered_ to the TARDIS, as though it were some apartment. There were no questions asked, merely bills exchanged and a few words—those words being "parmesan" and "hot pepper flakes." He smirks at her gaping mouth, taking the time to shove a slice of hand-tossed cheese it the gaping hole. Rose choked and swallowed.

"Rose, you're going to love it." He proclaims. "Best pizza in London. Best pizza in England."

"The universe?" she asks hopefully.

The Doctor considers this. "No, I wouldn't say that. Pazcile has some of the best. Make theirs in a brick over, hand-make the sauce and grow their own tomatoes. Delicious. I'd know. Got five 'undred extra taste buds, me."

"That would explain the oral fixation."

His grin is impossibly infectious. Rose finds herself laughing just off of his expression. He pouts, slightly offended. This does nothing to halt her tinkling giggles, but rather increases them. When she calms, he's already polished off two slices and is licking his fingers of the grease.

"This is fantastic." She sighs, finishing up her first piece.

"I've gone there a lot," He admits. "Honestly can't keep myself away."

Rose tilts her head. "Where is it?"

"Oh…" He squints. "Maybe about four blocks from Henrick's. East."

"Seriously? The one with—"

"The eagle on the sign." He finishs. "Yep."

Her mouth falls open. "Oh…I've seen you there!"

He frowns. "What?"

Rose nods vigorously. "Yeah, this version of you, waiting in line. You were right in front of me, ordered about six pies. You were wearing pinstripes and bouncing on your heels and I remember…." She suddenly drifts off, cheeks flush.

The Doctor grins, leaning forward. "What, Rose? What do you remember?"

"Nothing." She murmurs around a piece of pepperoni.

"Aw, c'mon. What?"

The human swallows. "I…silly, honestly. Don't laugh, yeah?"

"Cross my heart."

Her cheeks were inflamed as she spat out "Checkingoutyourarse."

Of course, he promptly burst out in booming chuckles, gasping for air between. The Doctor's eyes were visibly watering as he doubled over. Rose crossed her arms, leaning against the railing.

"Doctor!"

"Only mentioned one heart." He gasps raggedly between laughs. "Got two, 'member?"

Rose would've hit him, but he was rolling on the TARDIS's grated floor and therefore out of her reach. Pity, honestly. Thinking he was so impressive…someone needed to be knocked down a peg. She crosses her arms. "I didn't know it was you."

"Yes, well, doesn't stop you nowadays, does it?" He smirks, halting his obnoxious mirth. "Don't think I haven't caught you looking, Rose Tyler."

Rose Tyler had been certain her face couldn't get any redder; alas, she now resembled her namesake in colour. Sputtering, she protested. This only caused the Time Lord to grin.

"Oh, Rose." He pats her hand in false sympathy. "We all have weaknesses. Yours just happen to be attractive Time Lords."

"Isn't. More like cocky Time Lords who take an hour ordering pizza." She gives that smile, the one where her tongue sticks out, the one that makes his mouth water with want.

"Oi! Who are you callin' cocky?"

Her grin is sweetly mocking. ""I know I'm impressive.'"

"I do!"

"Oh, yes."

"Rose," The Time Lord whines. "really, it didn't take an hour."

"Alright."

"Honestly, Rose!"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Rose!"

But she's starting on her final piece, grinning around a thin slice of greasy cheese and dough. Her eyes twinkle and he can't help but smile back.

After all, Rose Tyler had been checking out his arse.

**I actually wrote this ages ago, but wasn't sure how to finish it. **

**Hope you enjoy! Please review.**


	9. Bowl of Cherries

"You can't possibly do it." She tells him, shaking blond tresses.

He doesn't reply, merely purses his lips. With a great look of concentration, he stares up at the bronze consol ceiling. His thin lips say perfectly still as he twists his tongue. Rose watches, fascinated. There was no way. He couldn't possibly do it. Maybe one or two. But not…Well, he'll see.

"Think you're so impressive."

His lips twitch. A swift smile that clearly says _"Oh, but I am."_

"You're just cocky. Typical male."

Another small smile, hinting on indignant. _"I am anything but typical, Rose Tyler."_ Then-

The Doctor smiles, offering 5 cherry stems between his clenched teeth. Each perfectly knotted in the center. Rose's jaw drops in a heartbeat. He has done it. In less than a minute, the Time Lord had tied all five cherry stems, not to mention consumed all five cherries.

"Superior physiology, Rose." He reminds with a smirk, plucking out all five stems at once with extreme delicacy. He grinned, mocking her scowl. "You know, they say the ability to tie a knot in a cherry stem with your tongue means you're an exceedingly good kisser."

"Mmm."

"I might need someone to test the theory with me. I mean, think. _Five _cherry stems!" He licked his lips, not missing her eyes following the trail of saliva his tongue left. "I may need some feedback."

Her scowl had yet to disappear. Even as he slides closer, her expression remains fowl. That is, until Rose reaches into the cherry bowl. Wordlessly, she slips one bright burgundy orb between her pouting lips, tongue flicking out to taste the smooth flesh of the marble-sized fruit. The Doctor feels a tad faint, hands quivering as a result of this display. Seconds pass as her mouth works around the fruit. She stares upwards, examining the ceiling carelessly as the Time Lord to her right attempts to maintain control.

Finally, _finally, _a stem pokes through the gap between her flower petal lips. But the Doctor doesn't even check to see if it has been tied, merely launches to crush her soft lips against his, moving them hungrily until she squeaks.

After what was, quite possibly, the best snog of his life, the Doctor leaves Rose leaning against the counter, breathing heavily. He can't overwhelm his human just yet—she already looks horridly dreamy. The poor thing needs some space and time to regain her composure. And perhaps he needs the time to reign in his own.

Sliding back under the console, the Doctor wondered, was provoking Rose worth it? Had he succeeded?

"Oh, yes."

His smirk was, in a word, delicious.

**I know it's short, but I find it very cute. I hope you've enjoyed reading. Review, please! And remember, I'm always open to prompts! It can be either a plot, food, or both. Thanks!**


	10. Spoilt

**This is a very, very short bit. I found just the first two sentences on a document in my "One Shots" folder, and decided to finish this up and post since it's been a while. By the way, as of right now I only have maybe two or three prompts floating around that folder, so if you have any ideas, by all means throw them my way. I've only received one fan prompt so far, and though I didn't totally understand it, I did respond ASAP to the best of my ability. **

**I hope you enjoy this shorty!**

The bananas were spoilt. Between their brown and black skins, and mushier-than-typically-desired interiors, this fact was painfully obvious. Rose knew his personal opinions on throwing out food, especially bananas. The Time Lord held the belief that food could not, in any way, shape, or form, decompose on his lovely ship. It just wasn't possible, he claimed. She was a time ship, and the kitchen was in an aging time lock, which meant it couldn't be possible. All TARDISes were constructed in such a way that all decomposable things would stay a fresh as the day they were harvested.

The consistency of the fruit was enough for her stomach to reconsider her breakfast, churning heavily against the walls of digestive organs. This level of gross was surely illegal on some planets.

Sighing, she pulled out the mixer. Banana bread would have to do.

He caught her, just as she tipped the soppy mess of a fruit into the dry ingredients. Feigning horror, the 900-year-old alien cried out to see the thing shredded to bits by the Hamilton Beach appliance that sat upon the counter, gleaming in its full twenty-eighth century glory. While he could appreciate the fruit in any form, he had a great passion for eating them in the most organic means.

Rose received a full scolding for her wastefulness. This might've had some effect if he had not popped his head back through the kitchen door some twenty seconds later to ask when the sweet bread might be done. The only reply he was given was a fist full of flour in the face.


	11. Beyond Basic part 2

"Mmmm, divine."

"Why, thank you." The Doctor replied, straightening his tie. "I've always thought so."

In the next seat over, Amy rolled her eyes. From behind his aviator sunglasses, her companion grinned without glancing over. They sat together in the library, beside the pool, soaking up the TARDIS-generated sunlight. Yesterday had been a busy one—they'd spent most of it on Wilex, participating in what they thought was the spring equinox festivities by weaving flower wreaths and joining in traditional folk songs. Actually, they had been preparing their own sacrificial alters. The resulting escape and heated conversation had convinced the Doctor they needed one day of relaxation before their next _"mishap," _as Amy put it. He preferred the term "_exhilarating accidental near-misses."_

"I was actually talking about the cake."

He sat up at that, staring as Pond inserted the cake-laden fork into her mouth. "Cake?"

"Mmmm." Amy pulled back the fork, licking her lips and humming with pleasure.

"When—"

"Wasn't me." She cut him off quickly, flipping the page of her magazine. It was from the 23rd century, but he wasn't scared of her finding much more than colour-changing nail polishes or twelve-base curling iron. "I found it in the kitchen. Sitting under that dome-thing. Has little pink roses everywhere on it. Little girly, if you ask me, but..."

He froze, eyes stuck on the half-eaten slice of red velvet.

_"You make a fantastic cake, by the way," The Doctor added, looking down mournfully to the empty plate. "Not too sweet, light on the tongue. Fantastic idea, by the way, adding the extra teaspoon of vanilla. Really brought something to the table. Or, I suppose, the plate. But I'm thinking—"_

_"I didn't make that cake." Rose interrupted._

_"What?"_

_"Yeah, I didn't. I found it on the counter, in the kitchen. Under the crystal dome thingy you always used to put pastries in. I thought maybe you made it."_

_"Me? No, no, no. I mean, I can bake. But I didn't make this. Are you sure you didn't?"_

_She rolled her eyes heavily, giggling. "I think I'd remember making a cake, Doctor…."_

"Doctor?"

He snapped back into focus, blinking rapidly. "Yes?"

"I said, did you make it?" Amy tilted her head, frowning. "And then you stared off into space. For about ten minutes."

"Oh. Sorry, I…" What could he say? _Well, for starters, you could answer her question._"Right! No. I didn't. The TARDIS did."

Amy's frown deepened. She tossed back a sheet of red hair as she sat up. "It's never made us food before."

"It has." He corrected quickly. "It does. On special occasions."

"Such as?" Why was every step a mystery when it came to this alien? Couldn't just answer the question nice and easy.

"Oh, you know." He drifted off vaguely. "I've got to go…" And he stood to drift out the room with his words.

Minutes later found him in the consol room, standing over the consol's main screen. He just waited, unsure. Daring himself to move. Taking an unnecessary breath, he leaned over to input a few commands, then stood back to watch the screen, drawn. Were he to be observed by anyone, they would see an anxious man, guarding over his expressions with baited breath. Finally, a few words flashed upon the screen.

24.

Happy Birthday, Rose Tyler.

Without another word or sound, the Doctor stalked out of the room. He would return to Amy, to the relaxing atmosphere of the library, and to the _now _of his life. He would brush off the incident when Amy asked, or claim to dislike that particular flavor. He would wait for the thing to spoil, or for Amy to finish it off after a week. Then he would push the entire event to the back of his mind. May his Rose be celebrating a happy life, wherever she might be.

**Sorry it's been a while. Life decided to give me a bitch-slap. **

**This was just a little something that popped into my mind this morning. I've developed more of a fondness for Matt Smith as the Doctor, so I decided to give him tribute today. Hope you like it! **

**Review, please! **


	12. The Battle of Breakfast

The girl shrieked, holding up a marred hunk of blond locks. "You got it in my _hair!"_

And he really couldn't help laughing, because, well, she looked absolutely _ridiculous _with egg smeared across her face. Not to mention cute. Though, if he'd taken a moment to shut up, he might not've received a fistful of flour to the face. The poof of white temporarily obscured his vision, but not his vocal chords.

"Oi!"

She was backing away, laughing far harder that he'd been, shaking her head with mirth. Ah, no. She was not getting away that easily. He descended upon her, open can of tomato paste in hand. "Rose Tyler," He began threateningly. "You are going to regret the day you mercilessly attacked the Oncoming Storm. Right champion of duels, me, whether it's with food or foils. "

"Oh dear." Rose managed to squeak before she ducked under him, hiding behind the island. "It was an accident!"

"Right, just like the Crusades." He agreed sarcastically. "Just come out and take it." The Time lord moved carefully around the island to face his nemesis.

"Okay." He was bombarded by three more eggs and a fist of coffee grounds, but not before he'd dunked the tin tomatoes over her head. Stumbling back, the Doctor caught the edge of the stove as Rose fled to the furthest corner of the room, which was coincidentally where the pantry was. Fantastic. The tables were turning.

She returned with the motherload; a jar of blueberry pie filling. "Admit defeat."

"Never!" He gasped, wiping yoke from his brow. Clinging to the edge of the stove, he stumbled in an effort to remain standing. The floor was rather slick. That could very well be his best defense, though, so he kept quiet.

The girl shrugged carelessly, eyes glinting in a way that honestly shook the Oncoming Storm. "Fine then. But I warn you, this was all brought upon you by your own foolish actions."

"It was an accident, Rose!" He wined, repeating her words, edging toward the sink. "I mean, really, I didn't mean to—"

"Mmm-hmm." The plea did nothing to slow his human down. She advanced with great purpose, turning the lid slowly as she stalked closer and closer to her prey, who had by now reached the sink. Rose licked her lips, a wide grin breaking through her egg-y features.

"Please, Rose," He breathed, pressing himself as close to the counters as he could. "I'm sorry, I swear—"

Before that statement could be completed, however, he found his chest covered by an entire jar's content of blueberry preserves. Rose was positively beaming, shaking with laughter again. The Doctor couldn't help but chuckle too, as he's pulled out the sinks hand-sprayer. Rose's giggles turned into screams as the cold liquid hit her body.

"Oh, you—you!" She was too cold to speak, tossing back her head when he sprayed her neck.

"Rosie, m'only trying to clean you up a bit!" The Doctor said soothingly. For his trouble, he was kicked. They landed together, as Rose had quickly lost her balance. From their heap of mess and limbs, they were silent, staring. Shocked, the pair eyed the extremely mussed kitchen, from the dripping counters to the tomato-soiled stove. Their battle had been the result of one slippery egg the Doctor had accidently lost his grip on while proving his finesse in the field of juggling. Rose, who was already something of a sourpuss in the morning hours, quickly decided redemption must be made in blood. Or, rather, by returning fire.

Laughter bubbled in the back of Rose's throat. Soon, then where rolling with giggles, pointing and cackling like a pair of fools.

"Fine way to start the morning!" The Doctor bounded to his feet, pulling up Rose with him, who slipped on the damp floor. She landed on her butt, painfully, but gave a loud howl of amusement. When she finally managed to remain in a vertical position, she slung one arm over the Time Lord's shoulders.

"Indeed. Best way. Though…" She glanced around the room once more. "…might need to end it with some cleaning, yeah?"

The Doctor followed her gaze. "Yeah, well…there's another kitchen down the hall. No need to kip up this one, right? Just close her up, wait a few days and-"

"I just thought since you started the whole thing, you know, that you might maybe volunteer?"

"Oi, wasn't me who decided to start throwing flour, Miss Tyler!"

Rose batted her lashes. "But you were the one to juggle the breakfast foods, yeah? See you 'round lunch!" With those parting words, she skipped out of the kitchen, snagging a bag of those mini powdered doughnuts he so loved, singing something that sounded oddly like "We Are the Champions" under her breath.

**I was thinking of 10 when writing this, though it could easily be 9. Thank you for the reviews! Keep 'em and any prompts coming. This one came from ****Tennoko Endellion, ****and this chapter is dedicated to them. Thank you!**

**Hope you like it. **

**By the way, can I get a vote on how many of you like the Rose/11 ship? Would you want to see more of him, 9, or 10? Do you think he ought to go sit in a corner and cry to himself, you hate him so much? Feedback would be great! **


	13. Fish Sick

"Promise me," He whispered.

She leaned forward, hands flying to either side of his face to wipe away the thin layer of sweat covering his brow. He felt so warm, unnatural heated. This was all her fault. Rose knew, she _knew_, dang it, that it was thirty-seven minutes, not twenty-seven. But no, she'd just had to go with her impulses. Her stupid emotions. And now…now it'd come to this.

Bright blue eyes bore into hers, shining with forgiveness and love and peace. He wasn't mad. He couldn't be mad. He was her Doctor. He would always understand, always forgive her. The Doctor knew she hadn't meant it. The Doctor understood mistakes.

He gasped in pain, clutching his tight stomach with one hand. "Rose," He wheezed, lurching forward. "Rosie, please promise me…"

"Anything." She said, feeling the tears well up in the corners of her eyes. Her mascara would be ruined, eye liner run halfway down her face, but none of that mattered now. "Anything, Doctor."

"Rose…"

Biting back a sob, Rose pressed closer. "What, Doctor?" She stroked the slick skin of his cheek.

This turned out to be a complete mistake, for as soon as she settled her hand he flung his head down to puke all over her shoes and the bedroom carpet. After much hacking, the Time Lord managed to return to a somewhat sitting position. His lungs cried for air as he heaved out the words. "Never make that fish again."

**9 seems to be missed, so I pecked out this shorty for my 9 fans. I have a great fondness for him, and wish Chris had stayed for at least another season. Hope you like it. Sorry they're getting to be so short, but my schedule is insane. I have three tournaments in a row this coming month…we'll see if I can come out with something over 1000 words. Though, I must warn you, I've promise my Red Sky fans first dibs on updates. **


	14. When Life Gives You Lemons

**When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade**

Lean, tan legs, crossed over the bright material of a striped beach towel. Sunglasses, perched ever-so flirtatiously on a pert nose. Perfectly glossed plump lips, pursed with a thin, hollow bit of plastic between them. The distinct scent of sun block, which has been generously spread over supple, youthful skin. Waves, crashing onto the sandy shoreline, only to be drawn back into themselves. Nature's eternal tug-of-war. Ironic, really. He was going through a similar process himself, over and over in his head. Somehow, through whatever unnatural means, he'd landed himself here. And even the beauty of his beach mate couldn't shake off the feeling of insistent shock and betrayal.

She had insisted, after visiting the icy world of Thoh, that they stop some place warm. Peferrably with a beach. He could not, for whatever reason, name such a destination off the top of his head. Besides, he'd reasoned, they had just finished up one vacation on the ice world, why stop any place else? Didn't she want to visit her mum, or maybe check up on Mickey-the-Idiot? It was time for adventure! Sure, they had barely escaped death this last time, but that had been a complete accident-

Her "_dear-lord-you-might-be-a-highly-intelligent-alien-but-you-certainly-are-a-male-aren't-you" _look was enough to silence his babbling. No, she had said, no, running for our lives yet again does not constitute a vacation, even if it is in a unique place. He had landed them in the middle of a bloody civil war, for god's sake. What was peaceful and relaxing about that?

To be fair, he had pointed out, it wasn't really a full-blown war, rather a skirmish between the two native species over—

Again, her "_What-do-you-mean-it-WASN'T-a-WAR?" _glare stopped him in his tracks. And then sent him straight back to the controls, where he promptly began looking up "proper" vacationing destinations.

"With a beach." She helpfully reminded.

Now that they were here, he couldn't find it in him to regret the decision. Especially not once he'd seen Rose in that bikini. The glass of lemonade she was currently nursing was not the only one sweating in the Hawaiian heat.

"…I don't mind the monsters and all, but it really can't hurt to do stuff like this every once in a while. You know, you have access to some of this planets most pristine places, but no, you'd rather kip 'round London half the time, rather than decompress in places like this. Right mad."

"Completely bonkers." He agrees, gaze sliding down her legs to her toes, the nails of which are lacquered a soft pink.

She took another sip of lemonade. "This is fantastic."

His only response is a grunt. He can't be sure if she's commenting on the beverage or their surroundings. Either way, a noncommittal noise seems like the best option.

"Really. I mean, it's great. Thank you."

Another grunt.

"You know, it wouldn't hurt to maybe, I dunno, enjoy some rays? Take off that old thing—" Flicking the cuff of his jacket. "—and drink a bit?"

Silence.

"Please?"

"…"

She leaned in, pout sliding into place with ease. "I dunno why you don't want to be here—it's completely lovely. Something about missing the danger, yeah? But can't we just have one day, one day for it to be just us?"

It's a plea Mickey had used on her plenty of times during their brief stops on the Powell Estates. Over private dinners, or quiet walks in the park. _"Can't it just be us? No danger, no running, no monster. Just you and me and…" _She'd never thought she would be the one repeating those words.

"I appreciate all the adventure. You know I love it. But I want some Doctor-and-Rose time now, all right? Is it such a crime, to want to hang for a while?"

Finally, a sigh. He stood, dusting off his jeans. She had played exactly the right cards to guilt him into a bathing suit. And he'd realized it too, but just let her get on with it. Knowing Rose, it would be far easier to accept his fate now, rather than attempt to reason her out of some other notion later. There was a _"put… trunks on"_ sort of mumble issued out, and he started back toward the TARDIS. If putting on a pair of swimming trunks would please her, who was he to deny-

"Wait!"

The Time Lord paused in his reluctant trek, turning back to the blond.

She held her lemonade glass, shaking it slightly as she voiced her request. "Can I get a refill?"

A full minute passed as the alien stared, almost incredulously, at the painted glassware dangling between her fingers. Big eyes peered out from behind tinted lenses, hazel and innocent. Wordlessly, he snatched the thing from her grasp and marched to the time ship, murmuring under his breath about the manipulative nature of 19-year-old human girls.

**Another shorty. It's 9 this time! Not much food mentioned, I know, but it ties together in the end. Please review! Please send prompts! I've got a rather depressing piece in the works, hopefully to be around 3000 words, but it's coming along rather slowly. Reviews are always a good motivation, though…:) **


	15. Hungover

**Hangover**

**The 11****th**** Doctor has a hangover, and begins to hallucinate after Amy gives him a nasty OJ-and-Egg concoction that was her Granny's recipe. **

**NOTE: The term "Valiant Child" will pop up in here a little, alongside "BAD WOLF." I'd just like to give you a heads up, they are not interchangeable terms to me—Rose did become the Bad Wolf, but she avoided her fate as the Valiant Child, seeing as she didn't die in battle as the Beast said. So there. Sue me if you don't like it.**

**Also-**

**Please note that there will be mention of alternate time lines. I'm not 100 per cent positive on the Doctor Who "policy" in regards to the existence of alternative time lines, but we're going to pretend as though they exist here. If you'd rather pretend they are alternate dimensions or universes, that'll work too.**

**And—**

**Something from one of the series 5 deleted scenes is mentioned. It's from the end of Flesh and Stone. **

**You can decide for yourself as to whether or not Amy and Rory are married. I would imagine the time to be post-Big Bang, but again, it's whatever makes the most sense to you.**

There was one thing all boys learned at some point, Amy Pond thought grudgingly as she gave the potatoes in the frying pan another shake, scraping the plastic spatula across the scratched iron bottom. Drinking is fun. Being drunk is fun. Having a hangover is _hell. _Especially if you're a Time Lord who can put away three times the liquor of a large human male. And then some.

The Doctor had felt it was necessary to accept Rory's best mate/cousin/plumber's challenge to a drinking contest. This was already after they'd played one of those ridiculous games where you made a beat and somebody had to down a half pint. And the Doctor, being the Doctor, said yes. Well, not quite…

Mounting of the bar's more rickety stools, the slender young man proclaimed with a finger in the air, "…And I'll show you, Barney Gallywanger, that I can hold my liquor! Because…bow ties are cool!"

He'd wobbled at bit then, so Rory had grabbed on to the stool, hoping to urge the Time Lord down.

"Oh, no. Your mate thinks he can out drink me, well, as Harper Lee said—"

"You've got another think coming, yes." Amy finished for him. He wasn't drunk yet, merely tipsy and excitable. Even so, she didn't fancy a night out with the boys when she could be back on the TARDIS, taking a hot shower. These were fellows she'd grown up with—"her" boys. The ones who'd teased her about her "raggedy Doctor," who had ridden bikes with her, taught her dirty limericks and such. But she was in no mood to see them now. "_Wankers, the lot of them."_ She thought, rather fondly. "Now get off the stool. We're going back to the TARDIS."

"No, I want to stay!" He reminded her of a hyperactive five-year-old in a McDonald's playpen, refusing to put on his shoes just so he could stay with his new pals a bit longer.

She looked to Rory for help, but the scruffy young man just shrugged. He didn't know what to do, and he certainly wasn't about to help Amy drag the alien's ass out of the bar. That was an action reserved for friends and family. Not extraterrestrial gits who swooped in and stole fiancés. Gits who were now clinging to said fiancé…

There was nothing to be done. "All right then. Have it your way. We'll stay, but once you start seeing things, hallucinating—"

"I never see things!" He laughed.

"—And if you start trying to walk on the ceiling, or use the sonic to play darts, we're going back to the TARDIS."

"Aaooh, you never let me have any fun."

"That's my line." The Scot murmured under her breath, pulling him toward the bar.

"Alrighty then!" He practically slammed in Barney, grinning like a loon. "I accept your challenge. 'Bring it,' I believe the term is, and then we'll see whose mum looks like a piece of—"

Barney good-naturedly jabbed the seemingly younger man, feeling a great kinship with him. That might've been the drink, but nevertheless, he was warming to Amy's friend. He was a bit funny, right odd, even. Amy had warned 'em all before he'd come 'round that evening that he could be a little crazy. But so far they'd just seen a party animal, eager to make friends and drink the night away. A good philosophy, in his mind. "Rounds all around!" His rumbled, slapping his new friend on the back. "Think you can hold your liquor, Mr. Smith?"

The younger man just smiled. "Fingers crossed."

Amy wasn't sure what had inspired him to drink. They'd been getting along fine, the three of them. Zooming about the planets, doing the typical format ("_arrive-find disaster—run and hide—fix problem—leave" ) _everywhere they went. Things were weird, true. But that was normal. For them, at least. Never a dull day. Loads of running. Laughing, too. And plenty of break-your-neck adventure. Nothing out of the ordinary, then, with the Doctor. She'd thought things were fine, perfectly-alright-thank-you-very-much. But then—

It was last week. Late last week, to be exact. They'd been visiting one of those weird, misty planets where nobody seemed to talk. The Doctor had located some natives. He spent a good deal of time negotiating with them ("_Bickering," _Rory had called it, under his breath) before they lead him and his companions to the local sage's cave, high up in the swampy hillside. The Doctor didn't explain why, of course, but he seemed bound and determined to find this spiritualist. All he would say is that he'd received a summoning (_"What, by post?" _Rory had hissed, because they had all been in one another's presence over the last twenty-four hours, and he'd gone and changed previous plans to drag them all the way out here). He didn't care to elaborate more on the subject. Amy trusted it was for "fairly-good-and-reasonable-reasons." And if it wasn't…well, that would be alright too. Not much she or Rory could do to rectify the situation at the time, so why not go along with it? They scaled the mucky hills with no real complaint, keen to see just what had sparked their companion's interest this time.

It was a tiny, withered old woman. She was, in fact, so tiny and so withered, it was hard to tell if she was a native, as they where limber, graceful things. They treated her with great respect, which was enough for Amy. She followed the Doctor's lead and bowed when he did, then backed away with the rest of the troupe, watching. There wasn't much too see. This was partially aided by the fire the old sage was fanning, causing clouds of smoke to rise and smother the humans' sight. Not to mention their sense of smell. Hopefully the TARDIS would be so kind as to translate this woman's speech, as it had yet to do with any of the other planet's inhabitants. Amy was out of luck, for when the woman opened her mouth, she spout out gibberish only the Doctor seemed to understand.

"Quite right, too." He said, nodding vigorously. "I did get your summons, as a matter of fact, it just took me a while—"

He was silenced by another bout of raspy babbling. The woman did not appear to be pleased in the slightest.

"Well, I mean, it's all relative, isn't it? Three years isn't that long ago, besides. I'm sorry, really, but I've been busy. Planets to save, worlds to defend, you know?" He paused, as if waiting for some sort of answer. "Right, you wouldn't, cooped up here. But really though, I would've come sooner if I hadn't—"

She spoke again. He listened, growing irate.

"You listen here." The Doctor had grown quite serious, face pale and taut with frustration. "I've done my best to make it here in a timely manner. If you don't like it, _fine. _We can be on our way. No trouble to anyone." With that, he pulled on the hem of his jacket, scuffing his boots along the dirty cave floor. It was final.

The old woman hissed. "We sought the Valiant Child."

Amy and Rory were thrown back a bit by the clear English, but the Doctor remained unimpressed.

"What about her?"

"We had a prophecy…"

He had the audacity to laugh. Amy threw him a _"shut-up-you-moron" _sort of look. He might not want to listen, but that didn't mean other people didn't as well. She hadn't the slightest clue who the Valiant Child may be and neither did Rory, from the looks of it. But the Doctor…a bitter smiled played about his thin lips, cool eyes showing only disdain. Cold, even for the Doctor.

"And now it's all gone to waste, hasn't it? The Ood beat you to the punch, I'm afraid." He shook his head. "It's all come to pass, anyways. The one you call the 'Valiant Child' is no longer in the world."

"But what of the Bad Wolf?"

Hearing this, he had to stop. Amy swore, it was as if ever atom in his body had slowed to a screeching halt. Every inch of him froze. The scornful expression, time locked until it slipped into blankness. "She's also gone." He finally said hoarsely.

The old woman stared. "Is she really? Or is time just a messy ball of yarn, as you claim it to be? Is she not here…everywhere…in some time line of your making…forever?"

He did not answer, merely stood, unwavering.

"Does it ever bother you? How you could simply fly down and pluck her up, take her out of any one of those alternative time lines fate leaves open to us, take her away with no consequence save your own conscience?" The woman is taunting"You, the sole Lord of Time, could bring back the Bad Wolf at any moment, yet you stay alone. Locked up."

Amy felt the urge to step in. "He's not alone!"

The woman turned her eyes on Amy Pond. "Isn't he? You are his friends, true. But how much do you really know of your Doctor? The Oncoming Storm? The Destroyer of Worlds? The _Lonely _God? The Bringer of Darkness?"

Amy was sufficiently quailed. The old sage turned her gaze back to the still form of the Doctor.

"The Valiant Child maybe lost to time. But we still have prophesy for the Bad Wolf…The one set on protecting her Doctor. She was to burn, having seen all that was, all the ever is, and all that ever will be. But she did not."

The Doctor lowered his head. "I burned in her stead."

The sage hissed again. "A scenario not foretold. So things have changed…"

"They did change," The Doctor corrected. "But it makes little differences now. If you've nothing to tell me, we'll just be on our way."

"Things are always changing, Doctor. What would you have altered, if you could spare the selfishness?"

There were a thousand options—the return of his home world, lives spared, repairs on the TARDIS, _Rose—_but nothing worth tempt the unravel of time. He'd seen what damage reapers could sew into already-befuddled situations. He was not one bit eager to test out this old woman's theory of snatching people from the alternate timelines. There was a reason his people had laws against this sort of thing, a very good reason.

"No."

The woman cocked her head. "No?"

"Whatever your prophesy is, she's not to be part of it. Rose Tyler is gone from this universe. Go back to your crystal ball and scare someone else with your dime tricks. You've got nothing to tell me."

With that, the Time Lord straightened his ties and marched out of the cave, leaving a stunned Amy, Rory, and crew of slightly offended natives in his wake. The sage, unperturbed, merely shook her long dreads. "Too dramatic, that one." She sniffed, disgusted.

Amy looked between the spiritual leader and her alien friend. She wanted to hear what the woman had to say, but at the same time was torn to follow the Doctor. He'd dragged them all the way up here, why shouldn't they listen? Even if she just spouted out more gibberish at least it would be something. Amy was still a little frustrated with their in ability to comprehend the sage's words. The TARDIS could translate nearly anything—what were the chances it was here, here where the Doctor was being oh-so mysterious (which was saying something), that the grand old machine would fail in a translation? It had to be something of his doing.

Who was Rose Tyler?

Had she been one of the others?

Rory was sending her nervous glances. "Amy, can we—" He jerked his thumb toward the image of the Doctor's receding figure. "—do the following-"

Amy ignored him to step forward. "What is the prophesy?"

The woman's eyes flashed. "What consequence is it to you?"

The human swallowed. "He's my friend. I want to help him."

A breathless minute passes in the cavern. Every soul is focused in the old woman and Amy. From outside, even the Doctor has spun around, curiosity overwhelming his better sense.

_"Now the hungry lion roars, __  
__And the wolf behowls the moon._

_There is a Storm rolling forth,_

_A revival of the old to new._

_The Valiant Child comes._

_All cracks are shutting to a close._

_Choices to be made"_

The woman's dreads rocked with her hums. She let out a brisk clap, signifying her finish. All were quiet, soaking in the information. Not a single person spoke. Everyone was too caught up in their own private thought, attempts to translate the old sage's words. Amy and Rory, though completely confused, were amazed. However, their friend was not.

The Doctor stood, pale and immobile, staring at the spiritual guide of the planet. She seemed almost smug, inclining her head in his direction as if to say _"There you have it." _He followed suit with the addition of a sneer. Neither of his human companions had ever seen him so disgusted. The man flicked his gaze toward them, then spun on his heels and stalked back down the hillside, seemingly intent on getting straight back to the TARDIS. Without anything more than a few mumbled thanks, the two humans followed their Time Lord back to the ship. He was on board, of course, already setting in the coordinates and planning the route for their next destination. Or so he claimed. Amy had thought there were many choices "route" wise when it came to the Time Vortex. No matter. He shrugged off all comments, ignored every question, and began his usual avoidance tactics. The babbling, the scurrying about…

Somehow, in all the scurrying, they'd ended up back. Back home, in the pub with the guys. Almost as though nothing had happened. But it had. Amy had seen his eyes, watched them glaze with memory, then flare to life in rage. The hag's words had meant nothing to her or Rory. Yet, they had clearly been significant to the Time Lord. He'd understood all the mumbo-jumbo about the lion and the wolf, storms and valiant children. Cracks, now that made a speck of sense! Had she been referring to the cracks she'd seen time and time again, the splits that seemed to follow her and the Doctor across time and space?

She would ask the Doctor, but he was not inclined to answer at the moment. Completely smashed. Though, truth be told, his general state of being hadn't been too terribly altered. He just laughed a lot more. Still didn't make sense most of the time. Was really just a friendly, ostensibly normal drunk fellow. Rory even warmed up to him after a few shots. Amy refrained from drink. Somebody needed to be a designated drag-to-the-TARDIS-er.

By the time he was ready to go, Amy had lost count of how many drinks the Doctor had consumed. All she really knew could fill a tea cup. He was completely drunk. Not just tipsy. Wasted. Couldn't walk in a straight line to save his life. Probably had a blood alcohol level that would kill any normal person too, but she wasn't about to get a reading. Rory helped her walk him back to the TARDI. From there they were lost. Neither human had ever seen the Doctor's bedroom. Naturally, it should be the place they put him to sleep off his currant state—he was already drifting off against Rory's shoulder—but _where_ was it?

Amy posed this question to the TARDIS and was answered promptly with the appearance of a door.

The room was uncluttered, clean and unfamiliar. Pictures sat on most of the flat surfaces, along with a number of simple trinkets. There was an unadorned platform bed, covered in a fluffy duvet. Everything was decorated with masculine neutrals and clean lines. Surprisingly dull, wonderfully mysterious, just what one would expect of a reserved bachelor. Nothing indicated multiples in the room's occupancy. Except—there! When Amy turned after laying the Doctor on his bed she spotted pair of trainers. _Women's _trainers. They rested against one of the sliding closet doors. In the background, housed in the closer sat a spiffy pair of Converse sneakers. Very much like the pair he'd worn the first time she met him, over fourteen years ago.

She opened her mouth, wanting to ask—But Rory caught her gaze. He had followed her line of sight, had seen the shoes. Silent, he mouthed _"Not now!" _Amy caught the message. Now was not the time. She backed out of the room, eyes stuck on the pink-and-white shoes.

The morning came and she stood before the stove, frying up their breakfast. He'd made a joke about frying and being Scottish the first time she'd met him. When he'd eaten fish custard. Back then it hadn't made sense. Then she had gotten older and things started to become clear. The day she realized what the Raggedy Doctor meant by his little joke, Amy had laughed until she cried, then cried until she'd fallen asleep.

The Doctor was slumped over the breakfast bar. Darker circles outlined his already-weary eyes. His hair was mussed up, skin oily with sweat, and limbs heavy. Even with the seven hours of sleep, the man was a complete wreck. But as was the nature of hangovers.

Amy unceremoniously shoved a plate of hash browns in front of the Time Lord. He shoved it back, shaking his head. "M'not hungry, Amelia."

She frowned. "You need to eat."

A shaky smile. "Nah. Superior physiology, remember?" And then he winced.

Resolved to feed him, Amy decided it was time to resort to Gran's old recipe—a clear-all hangover brew, the only method she'd ever found to work. It had even been known to cure alcoholism altogether if administered properly. Amy's own mum had used it on occasion, most memorably when Amy stumbled home around four a.m. one time when she was seventeen, completely smashed. She'd never forgotten that night. Rory had gotten the same treatment when he'd come by one night. They had all the ingredients, thank goodness. Without another syllable, she began the preparation. The somnolent Time Lord's eyes followed her through the room. She ignored him, set on fixing her brew.

Five minutes later, Amy Pond slid a glass of her Gran's famous cure-all in front of the Oncoming Storm. He eyed the concoction warily. She sighed.

"You'll eat custard with fish fingers, but not a little orange juice?"

He scoffed. "'Just orange juice?'"

"Oi, you didn't have any problems knocking back drinks last night, what's one more? Go on, take a chug!" Amy snapped.

The Doctor was used to Amy's forceful demeanor, but the snapping was a little much so early in the morning. Thoroughly cowed, the Time Lord accepted his drink. Pleased, Amy turned back to the stove.

But he didn't drink. Amy Pond had put in two eggs, one teaspoon of hot sauce, a dash of cinnamon and a hint of olive oil into the juice. Thirty-three seconds of stirring and _voila! _Breakfast.

Instead of partaking of the beverage, the Doctor stared into the cheery orange depths of the glass. The trip to the sage's cave had been a mistake. Apart from a fresh batch of pain, he'd gained nothing for his trouble. That is, unless you counted his two severely confused companions. He didn't.

Rose had never left his thoughts, not truly. The opportunities to bring her back had been numerous. From cracks in the threads of the universe to alternate time lines, Rose appearing herself, nothing seemed too impossible, yet so dangerous. He'd never heard of a thing so driven, and entity so drawn to him as Rose Tyler. But it wasn't to be. So why did the fates seem so keen on tugging them together?

Then again, perhaps the intent wasn't to reunited, but rather further his pain. Typical, for the powers that be to cause so much…No matter. He hadn't taken the bait.

If he had a pound for every time some medium or land-locked goddess told him Rose was coming back or destined to be right around the corner, he would be a rich man indeed. She wasn't coming back. There was no altering what had happened. His beloved little blond was in another place, happy and in (hopefully) good company. He certainly wasn't seeking to change her situation.

The liquid currently occupying his thoughts ripped. An image surfaced. A laughing Rose, sweeping her hair back from her neck as she spun and giggled. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then a third time. By the seventh eye blink, she had disappeared from his glass.

In awe, the Doctor sat up. Had he…was that…? In all his centuries, he'd never witnessed anything quite as trippy as that. Not in his kitchen, in the very least. How very curious.

Had the old woman perhaps have been right? Was this a sign from the gods he'd never thought to believe in? Was Rose on her way to him right now, in some form or other? Could he have been wrong?

No.

Shaking his head, the Doctor pushed away his tainted juice. Prophesy. Load of tosh, all of 'em. He stood, brushing away invisible crumbs from his dressing gown. He spared Amy a mumble of "Back to bed," and made a shuffling exit. He could use a little more sleep. By Rassilon, he was never going to drink again.

Back in the kitchen, Amy suppressed a smile. She swung round to the breakfast island, plucking the orange juice off the counter. With no regrets, she poured the glass's entire contents down the drain, nose wrinkling at the sight of the two gooey yokes as they slid flawlessly from the bottom of the mixture. "_Gran's old hangover recipe. Works every time." _

**Do you think this ought to stay here, or divorce and become its own little one shot? Thoughts? It does have food involved, and it was the main prompt, but does it qualify as a "Cravings" piece? **

**Hope you enjoyed it. I certainly liked writing it. Let's all be honest—who hasn't imagined what the Doctor would be like drunk? My personal interp favours a bouncy, energized sort, though I could also see him as a weepy sort. Maybe even angry, depending on circumstances. **

**Please review! Thank you for all the faves and alerts! **

**P.S. I was in a hurry to post (typical me) so I didn't check to terribly closely for errors. Sorry. Wanted to get this out ASAP so I might focus on Red Sky and WTVC a little more. **


	16. S'mores

**S'mores**

The night air was crisp, the s'mores crunchy, and the arm she was leaning against, very cuddly. He told her it was autumn here, probably in the mid-to-early 90s. Nobody, he promised, would find them here. The last week (or period of time that felt like a week—living in a time ship made things like dates and days run together is such a way, that she had just learned to count sleeps rather than time actually passing) had been particularly brutal. They had landed on Hechcinion in 5062, just missing the genocide of the planet's fair-skinned natives. Something of a World War for the tiny purple planet, more than half the population was wiped out in less than a month. He hadn't meant to show her this horror—they were supposed to have landed two centuries later, when the dying had passed and peace ensued.

Rose had seen…everything. Crying widows watching their children being led away in chains. The chaotic, anarchic society where prisoners were practically animals. Abandoned babies, left in the rubble of destroyed homes. Blood literally ran in the streets, along with feces and trash. There was the significant smell of death in the air. Smoke and cries filled the golden sky. Nothing, however, was worse than the tear-streaked faces of children, passing by in hoards. Each shuffled in a pained way, each was covered in filth. They all had scars, evidence of great abuse. Swollen bellies and stick-like arms. They were starving. Dying.

All of this, in less than ten minutes, less than ten meters from the TARDIS. Rose had turned to cling to his outer jacket, burying her face into his slim chest. He couldn't hear her over the dull roar of chaos, but felt her shaking sobs and warm tears through his dress shirt.

And then, quite suddenly, she was being ripped from him. One of the planet's urban authorities had spotted them in their secluded alleyway. They were a mockery of Earth's idea of police. Something like the Gestapo of the holocaust. And not incredibly friendly to outsiders. Rose and the Doctor were model outsiders: strange clothes, strange hair, strange skin. This specimen of law enforcement was one of types eager to climb up the social ladder. To catch two illegals wandering these war-torn streets would practically pushing him to the front of the line for promotion next month. It took the Hechcinon man little time to snatch the weaker-looking of the two and locker her with a pair of laser cuffs, slamming her head against the nearest wall while patting her for weaponry.

In turn, he quickly found himself being lifting from the ground. Which, then started to rises up to meet his face. A moment passed during which the Doctor examined his companion. The officer prayed to the 4000 gods his religion taught that they would soon be on their way. His wish was not granted. After being assured of Rose's safety, the Doctor turned to the urban authority. Rose shrank against the TARDIS. The Doctor had never been so physically violent in her presence. Again and again he drew fists back, covered in the translucent teal blood of the urban authority. Finally, the Time Lord face her. All rage swept away when he caught her expression. He dropped to her level, apologizing in soft tones. She just shook her head, eyes the size of dinner plates.

The scene was intruded by three more urban authorities. They started quite a ruckus, whistling and calling for backup.

They couldn't get back to the TARDIS fast enough.

Whenever they witnessed a horror, something so terrible Rose would just walk back to the TARDIS, through the consol room and straight on to her bedroom, he did his best to replace the bad memory with something pleasant. Nothing, of course, could wipe it out completely. But at the very least, it kept the good in league with the bad on the scoreboard. It was impossible to keep her entirely away from the universe's evil, though he tried his best. For her part, Rose was never upset, never angry. Rather, she merely moved closer, reached for him to just make it all go away. He could usually deliver.

Usually, he wasn't the source of fear.

Tonight, he couldn't be so sure. Tonight was…difficult. Rose wasn't saying much of anything. Wasn't laughing, or asking questions. She was not standoffish, by any means. Mores shy. Cautious.

"_Shell-shock._" He thought. Clearly, she was so traumatized, she couldn't express her horror. Though she would still touch him, accept his careful hugs, remain voluntarily in his presence for a great deal of time, the Doctor sensed a trace of fear through her movements. The silence was the worst.

The truth of it was, Rose didn't know what to say. She was scared, true. Very, extremely frightened of her travel mate's display of anger. But that wasn't the problem. He was her Doctor, always. The action taken in that alleyway was just a brief, minimal display of his physical power. Nothing in comparison to the danger of his wit.

But it was not the fright she had felt on Hechcinion that was holding her back. Rather, her own lack of reaction concerned her. Had she fought back in least, she might not feel as…beaten as she did now. Her Doctor had lost control because her reactions were slow, because she had lost her nerve and her place. If Rose had thought to just….scream, or something, he would've seen she was still able. Now she felt like a broken doll, an invalid. He walked on egg shells around because he was afraid one bad step might hurt her only more. How many times had he sworn he'd take care of her? As small as the Hechcinion incident had been, things had changed. It was symbol for how human she was. How he felt he couldn't protect her. As swift as it had happened…it was just one guard, one slip and….

It was neither of their faults. The whole thing was an accident. She couldn'tve really prevented anything, except, maybe…if she hadn't been so damn scared….

She was hurting him.

The Doctor, of course, did not realize all this pondering was going on right under his nose. He was doing his very best to focus on the _now_. The now currently included s'mores. Crispy, crunchy, sweet and melty, the tasty snacks are just what he needed to recoup. He pressed Rose to partake.

"C'mon, Rose." The Time Lord shoved a sharpened stick, prepped with a fluffy marshmallow on the pointy end, under the young woman's nose. "They're great, really. You're missing out." His companion hadn't eaten a single thing since they had landed earlier in the evening.

Rose shook her head, slim smiling hiding behind the curtain of hair she had yet to brush out of her face. He worked his way around a mouth full of melted mallow, nearly poking her in the face with the roasting stick he was brandishing.

"Rose, really, just one. They're fantastic! Best I've had, and I've had a lot of s'mores, let me tell you…just one?"

It took a little more convincing, but she eventually accepted the roasting stick. He leaned closer, showing her the ideal method of cooking. The Doctor preferred his marshmallows lightly toasted. Rose wanted burnt-to-a-crisp mallows. He made all sorts of retching sounds, completely disgusted. She merely grinned lightly, sliding her blackened pillow onto a bed of chocolate and gram cracker then pausing to take a loud bite.

She was, at the very least, communicating easily. Or easier, if not with entire ease. Rose still had that shell-shocked look about her, complete with halting movements. But their cook out seemed to be doing the trick. For a while he attempted to engage her in conversation, only to quickly find it was a very useless effort. It was mostly one-sided, with her whispering or nodding answers when necessary, contributing little to the flow of speech. He was at a loss. So he just talked. Told her stories of his life, what it was like before her. Even a few bits about the war. Nothing too major, just flickers. If he went in to deep with that particular topic, it would be hard to say if they could come out unscathed.

As the evening wore on, so did the Doctor's fears. Rose was still far too quiet for his liking. She had finally approached him, true. Right at that very moment she was curled between his legs, head resting against one knee as his hoarse voice floated above her head, illustrating epic scene of battle and escape. Over the entire course of the night she had probably uttered fewer than ten words. Progress, nevertheless.

The mixture of sugary food and smoke proved to be quite tiring on his human. Rose was just drifting off when he spoke.

"Rose…" He strained to find the right words. "I know you're…hurt, by what happened. I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I'm always scaring you." The Time Lord softened his voice. "I told your mum I'd keep you safe…can't even keep a bloody policeman's tentacles off. I'm just…sorry."

It was awkward. Awkward and sweet and undeniable Doctor-ish. She leaned more heavily on his leg, smiling sleepily. Very Doctor-ish indeed.

"Rose?"

Oh, he wanted an answer. She shifted into a sitting position. Unsure, the teen turned slightly to stare up into the alien's blue eyes. Crinkled around the edges with concern. Wordlessly, Rose reached up to smooth the lines. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.

"I'm not scared of you."

He doesn't open his eyes.

"I hate that you think I could ever be frightened by you." She continued in whispers. "You're perfect. I know you'd never hurt me. I'm not scared. Please, don't…treat me like a piece of china."

"_Save the world, but lose you." _Her fingers had migrated to his lips, and she felt him mouth the words.

"Then lose me. Always me."

"_Can't."_

"Try."

"_Rose…"_

She didn't kiss him, though she might have. The action may have reassured the man, but she didn't. Rose only stroked his cheek and put her head on his solid chest.

Later they disentangled themselves for another round of s'mores. This time they smiled and joked. Rose made a complete mess of her second mallow, ending up with strings of sugary white hanging off her pouting lips. The Doctor dripped melted chocolate on his jumper. He moaned and groaned loads, while Rose giggled nonsensically. Things were nearly normal.

**Lately I've been posting more serious, dramatic things. I think it might be the weather…On that note, I hope my Americans are enjoying their snow days.**

**Finally, something over 1000 words! Yay me! Hope you enjoyed it. 9 again for my 9 fans. He is being a little friendiler than usual, but with good reason. Look for 11 next time, I think. Something about chips. **

**Don't forget a review! And a prompt, if one occurs to you. I got a fantastic one the other day from A Who Down in Whoville (thankyouthankyouthankyou)**. **I'm trying to write as much as possible right now, because things are going to start heating up with the onset of senior year and Speech districts. Any ideas would be great! **


	17. First Born

"I'm hungry."

This being the fifth declaration of those two words, she felt justified in rounding on him for a good chewing out.

"So? What do you want me to do about it?"

He considers, but she's not about to let him go that far. "Do you just want to nip on down to the nearest pub, then? Grab yourself a pint and a steak, maybe some chips, and settle in the watch the game?"

"Well, now that you mention it—"

She pulled back and hit him squarely on the shoulder.

"—_Ow!"_

"Amy is _giving birth _to her first child." She hisses under her breath, eyes flashing. He's cowed, slightly. Being nearly a thousand years old, he's picked up on women's reverence for occasions such as this. But honestly, as he see it, you see one human's birth, you've seen 'em all. However, Rose doesn't feel quite the same way. Even if Amy isn't aware of their presence, even if they're just in the waiting room, they are going to "_be there" _for her, by god, if it's the last thing they do.

"Yeah, so does that mean the rest of us have to be in misery too, then?"

Another punch. She's gotten better over the last five years. He shouldn'tve been so keen to teach her self defense. Lord knows the only things she's ever "defended" herself from is his colourful comments.

"Yes, it does. Now shut up and wait. The midwife said it'll be any minute now."

"But I'm—"

"Starving, yeah." She rolls her eyes heavily. "Well, compare that to trying to push out a football sized creature from your uterus, and then whine to me about the injustice in life."

"But really Rose, I haven't eaten since yesterday on Glaxgomona. Remember? Being chased by mutant boars? Remember somebody jimmying you out of that jail cell? What, you think I had time to stop for lunch?"

On her last straw, Rose relented. She dragged her purse out from under the plastic hospital chair and dug around to find a couple of bills and coins. Shoving them in his open hands, she huffed, "Go find a vending machine. Whiney alien."

He ambles off without another word.

**As I promised, 11. This isn't the one I originally intended to post, but it works all the same. Hope you like it. Look for maybe one more later tonight. Review, please! **


	18. Soup Swoon

"_Hhhach!"_

The hollow hacking sound is terrifying. Wet and harsh, it is more than evident that the maker of the sound is most definitely ill. Very, very ill, if he's correct. The sound makes his chest tight with worry. His precious girl is a painful sight. She tosses and turns in her bed, can barely eat, complaining regularly that she is exceptionally cold. Why can't he turn up the heat? It's a time ship thousands of years old for Christ sake, surely there's a thermostat some place. Does he want her to freeze to death?

"Rose," He pleads. "Really, you're not thinking straight. You're burning up. Over one hundred and one degrees. Come down to the med bay."

No. No, she wouldn't go down to the medical unit, she was going to stay right her under her duet, stuffed between fluffy pillows.

"You're delusional. I'll carry you." He threatens.

He most certainly wouldn't. Last time a bloke tried to pull her to some place she didn't want to go he ended sprawled out on the curb—did he want to go the same way?

"You'd sick before you could get out of bed completely."

One groan and a pillow to the face later, he's removed himself from his position beside her sick bed. Obviously, he has over-extended his welcome.

It's highly likely this is just a human disease—pneumonia, strep, flu-but then again it could just as likely be an otherworldly alien virus. He could do a few scans (when she's passed out, of course, knowing Rose she's not about to let him randomly scan her when she's sure it's just a little stomach bug) to determine the specific brand of sick, but until then what is he to do?

"Soup!" The idea comes to him in a flash and he is quite pleased with himself. Indeed, it is a bloody brilliant idea. Soup always perks a body up. Yeah, some nice warm soup'll do the trick. Rose will be back on her feet in no time.

Upon entering the kitchen, the Doctor realizes quite tragically that he hasn't the faintest clue how one would go about making soup. Well, he knew it was typically a bunch of solid things floating in a liquid. And it was mostly hot. Usually. Right? No matter, he would just toss a few things together and it would all work out fine. It's soup. Nothing can be simpler than soup.

Naturally, the Time Lord chooses to forgo using a cookbook's instructions. This turns into a mistake, as he is soon overwhelmed by options. Chicken? Fish? Beef? What type of vegetables? Any grains? Tomato juice, or chicken stock? Copper pot or stainless steel? Stew or something brothier? Perhaps he ought to just make something from a tin…

Eventually he settles on chicken with tomato and potatoes. Just a bit of water, maybe some salt, and there you have it! Simple. Easy. Brilliant! And currently over-boiling. He makes a mad rush to the stove, cursing under his breath. If possible he would have already hired an in-house chef. However, few find the idea of working in a kitchen with inconsistent food deliveries appealing. Besides, he could cook for himself fairly well. Eggs and toast and such. Good food. The basics. Besides, if he ever really need anything he had the whole universe at his disposal, any time, any place.

The first soup comes out tasting similar to a fried rubber boot and he's forced to admit perhaps a cookbook might be necessary. One peek in on Rose (not yet asleep, bless her, but moaning and groaning all the same) and he's back in the smelly kitchen.

He goes back to chopping up bits of chicken and slicing potatoes. This next time would be it. He'd already figured out all the kinks on the last go. Just need to turn down the heat, cook the meat first, and use some of that boxed broth. Maybe ease up on the salt. And stir more often. Yes, that's it.

By his third ruined attempt (this one actually set off the smoke alarms), the Doctor decides maybe the time is 2006 and the place is the Powell Estates. Jackie Tyler's apartment for a stay over. As scary of a prospect as it is, nobody is better equip at healing Rose than her mother. Jackie will know just what to do. She's had Rose for years—19 of them, exactly—and Rose hadn't died yet. Surely she'll be able to convince the stubborn teenager to seek medical attention. Heaving a heavy sigh, the Time Lord trudges to his companion's room to inform her of their new travel plans.

Oh, the things he did for his humans.

**A 10 for my Tennant lovers (he's damn sexy, right?). Look out for that 11 I promised, and hopefully after that we'll see A Who Down in Whoville's prompt, and another 11 reques****t I received. **

**I'm sorry if lately all posts have been dark and gloomy-ish. I've just been watching a few of the sadder episodes and pondering the darker side of the Doctor, and it's been clearly reflected in my writing. I can't promise everything posted here will be cheery, but I can say I'm going to do my very best to balance out the humor with the depressing. **

**Once again, I hope you've enjoyed all my work thus far, and please review. Prompts would be lovely, though I warn you I might not post it ASAP as my muse is a moody one. **


	19. Chips

**Chips.**

**12-year-old Rose encounters the Doctor in a chip shop one winter day. 11/Rose**

**I was standing in the lunch line one day, to get some these. I live in the US, and we refer to the deep fried little beauties as "french fries," you know. I've been reading so much Doctor Who on , that I've sorta gotten into the habit of call them chips though. It accidently slipped out in line, and a friend heard me. The following teasing was quite epic. It spawned this.**

**And just as a side note, this started in past tense, but switched to present. I think I fixed most everything. I'm sorry if I didn't. That's the result of working w/o a beta. :p **

When one is 12-years-old, they are frequently overlooked. Too old to be considered _"cute," "sweet,"_ or _"darling." _But too young to be engaged in mature conversation, or considered a hooligan. Not a child, not a teen, and far from being an adult. It's unsettling, for it is quite possibly the first dawning bit of a realization; you're nearly ready to make your own way. Parents begin give you more responsibility, teachers become quite sour when homework isn't completed. But for the most part, between the ages of ten and thirteen, one spends most of their time being ignored.

This was exactly the state of Rose's being on this particular afternoon. It was nearly two weeks after Christmas—quite a brilliant Christmas, too—and she had been left alone for the afternoon. Again. Jackie has one of those makeup parties again at Mrs. Huxbee's place. Mrs. Huxbee was her mother's friend who lived outside of the Estates. She was slightly rich, very posh, and married to a bank manager or some sort. On occasion, she took up Jackie's offers to host a makeup party for an evening. Rose was perfectly used to being left alone. But even so…

"_At least Troy isn't here tonight." _

Troy was Jackie's twice-a-week boyfriend. He was twice-a-week because as a traveling sales man he was only in the city twice a week. Troy was nice enough for Rose, but he wasn't exactly mastered in the art of child watching. Rose highly doubted he could even cook an egg, let alone watch a 12-year-old for a mere four hours.

Being left to her own devices (and ten pounds), Rose decided it would be best to find dinner down the block. The best chips in the city were, fortunately, made in a tiny greasy shop only about five-ish minutes from the Powell Estates. It had been there forever, as long as Jackie, Shareen, Shareen's mum, or even Mickey's gran remembered. A painted tin sign hung over the shop front, slightly chipped and rusted. Jackie often said (rather scornfully) that they ought to change it—rubbish like that was bad for business. But Rose liked it. She thought it gave the building a personality. Character, like they had talked about in school last Thursday.

She puts on her jacket (a puffy purple thing Jackie found on a shopping trip last week), scarf, hat and knit gloves. It had snowed last night. Mum had made her swear up and down that she would not leave the house without loading on the full gear. None of the Tylers had died of hypothermia, and no way was she going to let her Rosie be the first. Rose grimaces when she notices the clunky boots Jackie had left beside the door, a clear indicator of the footwear she would prefer her daughter to wear. She opts for pink-and-white trainers instead. Stuffing the pound notes into her pocket and grabbing her key off the hook, she rushs to the door. If she didn't hurry she might be forced to take a call from Shareen's mum. The kindly woman would typically call the Tyler house if she knew Jackie was going to be out for the night, and invite Rose over for dinner with the family. The invites were greatly appreciated. Jackie had issued strict orders that if Rose were to ever receive a call, she was to accept it graciously.

Rose likes Shareen's mum. But she was not a huge fan of her cooking. To put it lightly, she and Jackie shared the same fondness for burning things to a crisp, and swore by tinned food.

Before leaving the apartment, she stops before the door considering. Her shiny new, cherry-red bicycle stood against one wall. It glisten, crying to be ridden. One thing holds her back—she isn't allowed to ride in snow. Another Jackie rule. A very silly one, in Rose's mind. She sighs and walks out.

The walk to the chip shop is relatively uneventful, apart from the materialization of the Estate's local stray, fondly known as Old Maggie. The mournful grey dog follows Rose down the sidewalk, stopping only briefly to sniff an interested curb corner.

So Rose made it into the shop unscathed. She enters casually, stepping into the short line before the glass-lined counter with practiced ease. The place isn't very full. A few restless teenagers, a couple of the elders, and, sitting in one booth in the very back corner of the room, a gangly, thin sort of man, head bowed over a basket of chips, leaning against the wall. Nobody particularly interesting, then.

She waits for ages. There are only five people in line, but for some reason it seems to taking forever. Rose soon finds out why. Duke, the shop's stout owner, comes out from the back kitchen to announce to his patrons that the fryers had to be cleaned, and that orders would take up to fifteen minutes. Most people groaned, but Rose didn't mind. She has more than fifteen minutes to waste, anyways. Duke went on to invite all the patrons to sit—he wouldn't be able to even take orders for at least twenty minutes. The girl removed herself from the deteriorating line.

She goes to her third usual seat. Third because the teenagers had taken her first, by the windows, and then the old people sat in her second, the one closet to the counter. The third option is in the furthest table. Near the skinny man's booth.

Having no other occupation, Rose turns to watching the other shop-dwellers. Several of the teens were interesting with Crayola-coloured hair and piercings Rose didsn't think were even possible. They speak a little louder than everyone else. Laughed more, too. Across the room, the older folks sip tea while they nibble on their chips. The men wear flat caps; the women carry pastel-coloured leather purses. Rose thinks that they might not be nearly as loud as the kids, but they are just as fascinating in a cluttered-junk-draw sort of way. Filled with stories and oddities. A webbing of lines across each face spoke of experiences she longs to inquire after.

This left only one other person. The skinny man. She glances in his direction. Surprisingly, he's raised his head and was doing the exact same thing she had been partaking of. That is, scanning the room. He isn't looking her direction, so Rose takes a moment to examine him fully.

Curious.

Very curious.

He is honestly the most odd-looking person she'd seen in this shop. Tall, with floppish pale brown hair and a straight nose. High cheekbones. He has a sculpted sort of face. Young, but all the same very….aged. Then the eyes, a very misty sort of gray that were entirely ancient. Intelligent. Then Rose moves on to the clothes. What strange clothes! He looks like some stuffy old professor with his elbow-patched jacket, scrubbed and laced boots, braces and…is that a bowtie? Yes, a burgundy bowtie, perfectly straight against his collar. Old-fashioned, really. And just strange. Who was this man?

Rose swears he can't be older than thirty. But why is he dressing like he belonged in a nursing home?

It's in that exact moment that the man swings his head around to stare Rose straight in the eye. She emits a tiny gasp, ducking slightly. Those gray eyes burn into her wide hazel ones, burn with an intensity she has never experienced. Rose cowers slightly under the stare, until, quite suddenly, the eyes morph into orbs rivaling her own. He is shock, just as shocked as she. In a different way, obviously. The man's jaw drops ever-so-slightly. Rose isn't sure what to do him now he's noticed her. She just gapes back, completely frozen.

After some time, the man closes his mouth, shaking himself slightly. He pushes himself away from the wall, scooting closer as if to stand. Rose shrinks away. The man frowns, then settles back into his seat, steepling his fingers. "Hello."

Rose replies softly with her own greeting.

"Are you waiting for chips?"

She nods hesitantly. He gestures with two fingers. "You can have some of mine. Not very hungry."

Rose's eyes flicker between the fried potatoes and the man. Her mother regularly reminds her to not take candy from strangers. But chips aren't candy. Still…

The man smiles warmly and pats the red pleather seat across from him. "I swear, I don't bite."

"Mum says I shouldn't bother strangers." Those were not Jackie's exact words, to be entirely honest, but how would he know?

The man considers this briefly, then claims "I'm not a stranger. At least, I won't be. Not now, I suppose."

Though a little confusing, this is enough for Rose. She slides into the seat neatly. He pushes the plastic basket across the faintly greasy table, along with vinegar and salt. Apparently, he'd done little more than picked around the spuds. One or two had been shredded to bits by bored fingers. Obviously, this person was longing for some sort of company.

He watches her carefully, almost as though he is frightened she might disappear in an instant. Rose stares back bluntly. Who is their right mind would want to sit with a 12-year-old in a chip shop? Surely he has some friends?

Suddenly, he interrupts her thoughts. "Where's your mum? She let you come here by yourself?"

Though his tone was surprisingly protective, Rose narrows her eyes. "Back waiting for me at home. She'll be very put out if I don't make it back soon."

The stranger stares at her for a full thirty seconds before throwing his head back with a loud, infectious laugh. "Yes, I'm sure she will be. Never one for patience, Jackie. I'd imagine you'd be getting quite an earful. That is, if she was home."

Rose looks away. He grows solemn. "Working,right?"

"Yeah."

He smiles kindly. "Someone's got to do it. Keep a roof over your head."

Rose isn't sure what to say to this. She is already confused as to how he knew Jackie's name. Perhaps he's a friend—one of those grown-up friends who hadn't seen Rose since she was, like, 3 and automatically expected her to remember them. They sit in silence for a time while Rose nibbles on the chips. With no subtlety, they watch one another with undisguised interest. Finally, Rose asks, "What's your name?"

He laughs again. Rose honestly can't see what is so very funny this time. Crossed, she sits back against the booth's sticky seat, scowling. When he finally calms, he apologizes. "I'm sorry. Just, something I've…been hearing a lot of lately. And it seems I don't have much of an answer for anyone. At least, not one they like."

Rose tilts her head. "So…do you not know your name, then? Like, amnesia, yeah?"

He smiles. "Sort of like amnesia. A little more complex. More like…a physical manifestation."

This also doesn't make much sense. How could amnesia be physical?

"It's not a big question, really." He continues. "'Who are you?'It isn't something that ought to be hard to answer. And yet…" The man drifts off, looking out the shop's frosted front window in a dreamy state.

"And yet?" Rose prompts after several seconds.

He jerks to attention. "And yet! And yet…I've developed some difficulty in answering as of late. It feels like my name. But what's in a name?"

"Are you quoting Shakespeare?"

The stranger startles her with a wide grin. "Perhaps. Or maybe he was quoting me. Great man, Will. Could jot out a line like no other."

Rose shakes her head. "You act as though you've met the guy."

Another grin. "You act as though that's impossible."

Oh, he was just full of riddles.

"So tell me, Rose Tyler, what are you doing here all on your lonesome. Why aren't you kipped up 'round the telly with your mum and some tea? It's just the sort of weather for that sort of thing, you know. Nasty out, and all."

"It's nice weather." Rose says defensively. "I love snow."

"You're young. Can't see what trouble it is. Just a bunch of fluffy wet stuff that gets in the way of everyday life."

"'S pretty!"

The man claps his hands. "Just what I wanted to hear."

Rose rolls her eyes. "You're talking circles 'round me. Weird."

"Oi, who are you calling weird?"

"You! You don't even know your own bleedin' name!" Rose exclaims.

"Fair enough," He admits. "Though, never said I didn't know. Just never told you."

Rose lets out a sigh. "What is it, then? Go on, tell me."

The stranger sits back, considering, fingers together again. "I will, someday."

Frustrated, Rose almost starts whining. Then she thinks better of it. Might come off as immature. And Lord knows she doesn't want that. He's the first adult in a very long time to treat her as though she wasn't a walking time bomb. He made eye contact, smiled, spoke to her like an equal. As irritating as this odd bloke may be, he's good company.

He breaks her line of thought with a quiet question. "Have a good holiday, Rose?"

Her attention automatically snapped to him. A curiously expression is on his face. His eyes are half-lidded, like he's sleepy.

"Uh, yeah. Great one, actually."

"Did Father Christmas visit you this year?"

Rose nods, chewing on an extra salty chip.

"What did he give you?" The man sound extremely casual, but Rose knows better. The way his eyes flicker across her face clearly display interest. So Rose describes the morning she found her sparkling new bicycle standing beside their tiny tree. She'd longed for a bike for months and months. Mikey had one. Sometimes, he'd let her ride it 'round the block a few times. It was the most magical feeling. As close to flying as she had ever been. The man listens intently. She talks about the first time she rode her bike, how she fell and skinned her elbow. Jackie had put up such a fuss, but instead of forbidding further rides went out and bought her a helmet and safety knee and elbow pads.

Rose pauses after her lengthy-ish narrator. "What about you?"

The man blinks. "What about me?"

"What did you do for Christmas?"

The man considers, stretching out his arms behind his head. "Met some new friends. One could sing really well—so well she could probably break glass."

Rose grins at the thought. That sort of thing only happens on TV. "What about presents?"

This clearly stumped him. "Ah, well, no. Not really."

His young companion's expression is heart wrenching, as she cannot believe such a concept.. "Why not? Don't you celebrate Christmas, or something?

"Not in the traditional sense, usually." He says gently. "Sometimes I do. Not very often."

Rose tilted her head. "Why?"

The stranger shrugs. "Just busy, I suppose."

"Do you have anyone to holiday with?"

"Oh yeah," He assures her with a wave of the hand. "Loads of people. Just…can't seem to find time off." He gives her a warm, ironic sort of smile. "But that's not the end of the world, eh?"

Rose has to agree. His situation could be much worse. At the very least, he doesn't seem overly concerned with his loner status. She probably couldn't bear it. Rose knows all too well what a social butterfly she can be.

"How are the chips?"

Brilliant, as usual. She declares herself astounded with his inability to finish them, as they are the best chips on this side of the Thames. The man smiles and shakes his head, citing lack of hunger and weariness as the cause for his half-eaten basket, observing that, at the very least, they hadn't gone to waste thanks to her. Rose nods between bites. They fall silent again, before the man says abruptly, "What do you want to do with your life, Rose?"

This stops her. Though the question has been asked before by many a bored adult, it had never been asked by such an intriguing person. Her answers had always been constructed to please. Nowadays, she wasn't really asked anymore. Twelve-year-olds on the Estates were expected to be already resigned to their fate. The question was considered cruelly unnecessary. Rose breaths long and hard, searching, using the salty spuds to stall her answer. The man watches, eyes serious.

"I've always wanted to travel," She starts slowly. "Explore, you know? At school…the only really interesting people in history I've been able to pay attention to are the explorers. Marco Polo, Columbus, Magellan…I wanna see things nobody else ever see. Do things nobody from the Estates could even imagine. The world is so big, 'n I wanna see every mile of it."

Her companion being nodding. "Sounds like a plan. How are you going to do it?"

Rose's eyes dropped down to the plastic basket. "I dunno. That's just it."

He recognizes that look. It's akin to shame. She believes she knows her place—here, at the Estates, poor and beneath the social radar. But that isn't what Rose Tyler is destined for. And she needs to know…

"You'll find a way." He promises. "You will. I know it, you're going to see more than just this world."

Again, the words do not make sense. But they give Rose hope. Her shining eyes rise to his thin face. "What about you? What are you doing?"

"I'm not a grown up yet, still have a while to decide." He says seriously, though there is a barely-discreet grin pulling his lips tight. "Nah, there's not much to tell, actually. I just ramble around a bit. Do a bit o' this, bit o' that. Not got anything tying me back, really."

"No job."

"Nope." He pops the "p"

"House?"

This answer take a little more thought. "Sort of." He says vaguely. "It's not your typical house. Little bit more mobile."

"You're got a mobile home?" She guesses. He laughs, throwing his head back.

"No. Not a mobile home."

Rose struggles to find some alternative. He watches, amused.

"You will never guess. I swear."

The chips are gone. Rose is surprised. They've never lasted so long before, to be honest. But then again, she's never spent so long in the chips shop.

"Do you need to leave?" He asks, voice tinted with concern.

Rose confirms his fears. They must part now, regretfully on both sides. But it is not to be avoided. He offers, rather shyly, to walk her back to the apartment. Rose leaps on the chance eagerly. The basket is placed haphazardly on the counter and they make an understated exit. Once outside, they turn left and begin the walk. The man leads naturally; something Rose notes but doesn't comment upon. They start with a full three feet of space between them, but find themselves drawing closer and closer. It is a though some internal gravity is forcing them together. Neither verbally recognizes this new arrangement—they discuss the weather, the town, the universe. Not themselves.

The streets are lined with snow, gray and thin. It is dirty, huddling it small lumps against the curbs and the edges of buildings. Sad really, that something so beautiful can be disregarded and destroyed in such a careless manner. Last night the falling flakes were magical, drifting down almost lazily. Rose had sat on the window ledge for nearly an hour, just watching the world around the Estates transform into a white world of wintery newness. With new snow, everything is clean and fresh and perfect. Then the people leave their houses, the children play, and the crisp whiteness is ruined by everyday life. The wonderland is gone. It's the perfect metaphor for the life of an Estate kid.

They reached the building. Rose pauses, looking up. The apartment is dark and blank and empty. Jackie is still at the Huxbee's, and probably wouldn't be returning for quite some time. Her daughter stood before the metal door, the entrance to the stairs that lead to the upper-level apartments. It had been painted white, long ago, but now was a flecked with spots of rust and general age. Now he must leave her. She would climb the stairs, cross the walkway and unlock the thin wooden door and enter her home. They might see one another again, they might not.

At this point, Rose wasn't sure what to do. She had never before experienced a stranger like this, never created a relationship in only an hour only to walk away from it, unsure of its continuation. She felt as though this moment was monumental. Central to her life, somehow. He was odd, true. Knew her name before she'd even said five words to him. Knew her Mum's name too. Odd. Endearing, almost.

"Will I ever see you again? And what's your name? 've you got one?"

He throws back it head in another laugh, puzzled grin plastered on his face as he squats delicately to her level. "You'll see me, I promise, Rose Tyler. Might be awhile, though. Might not even recognize me…but you'll see me, I know. May get sick of seeing me." He winks.

"But I don't even know your name!" Rose says, wringing her hands in nervous desperation. If Shareen were here, she would probably recognize the symptoms of a developing crush. However, Shareen isn't here.

"Don't you worry. A lot of people don't know my name."

"But I want to!"

"Lovely Rose…it doesn't matter. I enjoyed those chips with you tonight. It has been the highlight of my holiday. Now go up stairs. Watch some telly, or better yet, read. We'll find one another again."

"But—"

"_But, but, but…" _He repeats in a high-pitched, comical mockery. "We will. I swear, Rose Tyler."

She could not help but believe him. His gray eyes, so serious, so old and so sincere, promised her his word. The man scooped her into a quick and gentle hug. "Good-bye, Rose."

"Good-bye…"

He turned around and disappeared 'round one corner. And Rose was alone.

It wasn't until she was roughly twenty-three and a resident in a whole different universe that she realized who her one-night chips companion had been.

**Sorry it's been so long! I'm working on a show right now…only two more weeks, and I swear updates will be frequenter. **

**This one doesn't have a load of humor, I know. But it's been niggling on my mind for quite a while. Hope you enjoy.**


	20. Pears Remind Me

**Pears**

**Rose/10 . Second part is entirely Doctor's POV as a small child as to why he hates pears. **

**This is for a Who Down in Whoville, who gave me the prompt for this piece. I hope you enjoy it! I certainly did. **

He threw the TARDIS doors open with the usual amount of zest, bouncing out of the time ship with the speed of a G5, chattering about the scenery, the weather, the planet, everything and anything. His partner stepped out behind him, enthused, but significantly less bouncy. She followed him closely as he flew down the hill they'd landed upon, words flying out of his mouth as quickly as the big-beaked birds that were launching themselves out of the trees surrounding them.

"Apples! Rose, can you believe it? They dedicated at whole continent of this planet to apple production. Well, I say production-this one, Babab, is for growing. Lappes across the ocean is for packaging, and then Pel takes exporting. All for apples. Not just any apples, either, but those great big ones that taste like…"

"Honey melting in your mouth?" She offered.

"Exactly!" He grinned, running . "Honey! I tell you Rose, this was brilliant business venture. Everyone loves—"

They had reached the edge of the grove. A line of trees marked the end of the hill's slope and the start of carefully cultivated rows of trees, creating a natural barrier between the wilderness and the grove. Rose paused as the Time Lord made a path through the greenery. He tossed her one last bright grin before bursting through the trees to enter the grove.

"—apples!"

The pair of time travelers stood between two rows, staring up at the dew-covered fruit of the nearest tree. The distinctly reddish brown, matte-fleshed, pear-shaped fruit. Each one sparkled in the early morning sun, innocently hanging from their trees like jewel-encrusted charms. Rose barked out a laugh when she caught sight of his expression.

Pears.

Pears?

_Pears!_

His jaw was slack, mouth forming a perfect oval of shock. "But—I—these aren't…_Pears?" _

"Pears, Doctor." Rose was clearly amused.

"I…_pears?"_

"Yes, pears!" She hit him lightly. "Not apples. What's the problem? They're still fruit. I mean, it's not like you took us to a Tyson plant. Then I'd been concerned—whole different food group, yeah?"

The alien shook his head. "You don't understand, Rose. They're _pears. _Not apples. They're…"

"Juicer? What, are they like aspirin, or something?"

He just looked at her helplessly, arms spread wide. There was no way to describe his anguish. Besides being generally disappointed (He honestly loved apples), he was appalled. Pears were, on Earth, considered perfectly fine, normal, _good, _even. But in his book….

"Rose, they're…" He struggled to find the words."…not apples."

"Yes." She said slowly, confirming his fears. She was looking at him as though he was crazy. "We have established that. Have you ever had one?"

He gulped. "No. I dare not."

"Why?"

He just shook his head again, running a hand through his spiky, nut-brown hair.

**XXXXXXXXX**

"Darling?"

He turned his head sharply, eyes wide with youth and innocents. Mother stood behind him, holding her fancier outdoors robe—the one embroider with gold threads instead of red. A clear sign of rank. He preferred the red. She was smiling softly, warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners with love.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking outside." His voice was low and quiet.

"At the trees?"

A nod.

Mother stepped forward to gently stroke his curls. "It is beautiful, isn't it? It was very kind of your uncle to let us stay here for the summer. Especially since…." She drifted off, expression fading into sadness. "We'll not think about that, darling. Now isn't the time. We're in a beautiful place, aren't we?"

He agreed. The house sat halfway up the mountains. He could see for miles, see the red grass, the silver-leaf trees, the lakes, and the horizon, filled with amber sky. It was beautiful. Home. Gallifrey.

Mother caressed his cheek. "Do you want to walk in the garden with me? Your uncle has some new trees he brought back from his last trip. They made him test the newest model of TARDIS."

"Did they?"

"Do you remember? He brought you that secret box?"

He nodded. Mother slipped on her robe, buttoning the top three buttons up to her neck. Her son reaches up to touch each button with reverence. Glass, cut and formed to make beautiful gems, facets throwing off reflected shards of light. She smiled, watching his fingers trace the shapes. "Do you want me to get your cloak for you?"

"No." He stood, straightening. "I can." And he did, dashing to the downstairs closet, hands running down the stucco wall behind him. Then he was back, cloak over his thin shoulders. Mother guides him outside, shutting the thick, hand-carved door behind them with a firm motion, wincing at the sound. Over the months, her physical ability has dwindled somewhat (though no one will tell him why), her need for rest increasing (she won't answer when he asks "Why?"), and her general temperament altering to a slightly more forlorn state (he hears whispers, occasionally, of "the R word"). Though she worked to conceal all traces of pain, it's still evident that something is occurring.

The boy's mother stokes his curls as the walk on the red lawn, musing. Immuno-aerobic Consumption,they had said. Probably from her numerous trips to Earth using the T770 TARDISes. A stronger variation of the human's Victorian weakness. It would take months to wear her down. But she shouldn't worry. She would regenerate, naturally. A healthy, normal regeneration.

He spotted his uncle's trees ahead, pointing them out. Once closer, he sees plump fruit hanging from the skinny branches.

"Pears," Mother told him. "From Earth, I believe."

Then he looks at her. Really looks. Her limbs are shaking slightly, her face pallid and cover with a thin sheen of sweat.

"Mother, do you need to sit?"

Her smile reveals nothing. "I am fine, darling. Just a little weary."

"Alright."

"Would you perhaps get me a pear? I've not had one since…." Her voice drifts off with the onset of memory.

He agrees and rushes to the nearest tree, stretching to pluck one ripe-looking piece a fruit from its home. She accepted it gratefully, rolling it between shaking hands. "D'anjou, I believe." She breathed."It's a lovely morning, is it not, darling?"

Her son said nothing in response, he was too busy watching her skin. Suddenly, the pale surface had flared to a bright gold.

"Mother…?"

She had noticed, too. The pear had stopped moving between her hands as she stared at her glowing hands. "Oh, dear." She sighed. One glance to the house, then-"Darling, I've…it's a regeneration, I—"

Another flare, and her body is rocked forward with its force, skin shimmering. "No!" She gasped.

Her son approached fearfully. "Mother, what—"

"Don't touch me! Please…" She winced. "Go into the house. Send a transmission to your uncle. Tell him—" Another jolt forward. Then she was on the ground and shuddering. He couldn't move, couldn't even think to leave her. What if left, and she…?

Energy forced itself from her body, becoming flames of orange and yellow light, devouring her skin. Her son screamed. The pear rolled out of her grasp, nestling in the red grass of the trembling earth. Above, the amber sky shimmered in dawning brilliance. All the world was wrong.

**XXXXXXXXX**

Rose held a pear between her two open palms. She dropped her head to inhale the sweet scent. From the shadows of the non-pear trees (he solidly refused to even approach them), the Doctor watched with narrowed eyes. His partner raised the fruit to her lips, inhaling once more before sinking her incisors into the white flesh. A sole drop of juice found its way down her chin. Rose closed her eyes. He made a sound of disgust. Annoyed, she cracked an eye.

"You cannot knock something before you've tried it."

"Can." He states.

"Can't. One bite?" She offers.

His eyes flicker between her and the fruit, when she holds out with both hands.

"C'mon. Can't hurt."

"It can." He says darkly.

One heavy eye roll and five steps later, she's standing before him, holding the pear right under his nose.

"One bite."

He meets her gaze. Rose's hazel eyes are steady as she raises the fruit to meet his lips, never straying as he bites a small crescent out of the slightly gritty, juicy tissue. The moment is somehow very profound. He can't describe it. Later, he finds that he can't describe the taste of the pear, either, as he was far more focused on Rose's eyes—their warmth and clear amusement. He had always fallen for eyes like those. Humor and joy. A good combination.

Much, much later he decides he will never consume another pear in his life. They are Rose's fruit. His mother's fruit. Never his.

"…_and five, very important, five, don't let me eat pears. I HATE pears. John Smith is a character I made up, but I won't know that, I'll think I am him and he might do something stupid—like eat a pear. In three months, I don't want to wake up from being human and taste that…"_

"...because it would remind me."


	21. Chips 2: A Mistake Worth Making

**Chips 2 **

**Rose realizes who she had chips with that evening, and describes the event to 10.5, over more chips. **

**This is for Colormyworld, who suggested Rose and 10.5 have a conversation about events in **_**Chips.**_** Thank you very much, my dear. I hope you like this one. **

**I'm lovin' these prompts, people. Keep 'em coming. I haven't turned down one yet. **

**Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews!**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Doctor Who.**

They find the shop quite by accident one day when shopping with the baby. There it is, tucked between two department stores, tiny and grubby as ever. Less than a mile from the Estates. She insists they go in. Had to see if the chips were the same.

The neon sign outside is green, not red. The floors aren't concrete, but black and white tile with stained grout. The proprietor is a woman, aged and batty, who takes orders with a chew up pencil. But the air smells the same—salt and vinegar, oily and slightly sweet. Rose inhales deeply.

They sit in her first favourite seat—the back booth. Prior her twelfth year, Rose had favoured the front window seat. Then she'd met the man, and become more acquainted with booth. It certainly had its advantages, such as a great view of the shop and its occupants. Or less ripped-up seats, as nobody wished to sit in the back. And proximity to the kitchens.

Rose settles into the booth with ease, putting the diaper bag beside her on the floor. The Doctor gives her a disapproving glance, but the baby quickly diverts his attention with a gurgle. She's still in her plastic carrier. Her eyes are half-lidded. It's nearly noon, nearly nap time. Rose watches with a quiet joy as her partner tucks his daughter in tightly with a second blanket, then taps her nose as he monologues over the benefits of nuclear energy over hydro, a conversation started earlier in the car. For all she knows, the baby understands him clearly—after all, she's one-fourth Gallifreyian , and Rose hasn't the slightest idea of the rate of mental development of infant Time Lords. The Doctor's not been much help on the subject, for every time she's inquired, he's merely shrugged and claimed to be entirely unknowledgeable because he's never a quarter anything before. He repeatedly assures her that the child will probably turn out to be perfectly normal, with maybe just the tiny side effects of an aspirin allergy and extended life expectancy. Nothing too major.

An order is placed. Rose turns her attention toward examining the familiar shop, while her partner occupies himself with the baby, now going over the finer points of some quantum physics theory. How they moved from nuclear energy on to quantum physics she'll never know. It was just another leap of faith that often came in conversations with the alien. "_Part alien." _She reminds herself.

She sits back against the cool pleather seat, thinking. Being her reminds her of the man, the great mystery man who had occupied her thoughts since their meeting here over eleven years ago. She'd mused and wondered a good deal since then. Sure, the idea of him being the Doctor had occurred to her on more than one occasion, but it had seemed impossible. Until a few months ago….

**XXXXXXX**

_She'd been rudely awaken by a shattering gasp, followed by a series of jolting screams. Rose sat up, accessing situation. Her bedmate writhed beside her, twisting the sheets around his quaking form, crying out in some unseen pain._

"_What is it?" She demanded urgently, holding his shoulders flat on the mattress. _

"_R-r-r-regeneration." _

_Her grip loosened in shock. "How? But you said—"_

""_N-n-n-not m-mine! H-h-his. H-h-he-he's dying!" The moan came out with a great shudder, then he stilled scarily. Rose ran her hands across his sweat-dampened brow. _

"_How?" She asked again, in a smaller voice this time. Scared of the answers he might give. _

"_I don't know." He's lying. They both know it. It doesn't take a hand to the back of the neck, or a quick nose rubbing to tell her that. _

_Rose doesn't say a word, but lays back down, snuggling close. The shaking stops later, early in the morning before first light. They don't speak of the incident again, except once when he finds her alone with the baby, crying her eyes out over their child's sleeping form lying in the white crib. _

**XXXXXX**

She holds a crisp chip between two fingers. It's soft, yet not rubbery, leaving shining traces of oil on the pads of her fingers. Still warm. Rose examines it closely before consuming it carefully. Her husband watches from across the table, silent.

"Did you ever…meet me before you…met me?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

Rose lifts another chips, considers it before answering. "Like, I dunno. Meet a younger version. Be all mysterious. You know."

"I really don't."

She sighs. "It's hard to explain."

"You think I met you prior to you meeting me in Henricks?"

"That's it, yeah."

It's his turn to consider. "Possibly. Though, not in this regeneration."

"Oh." She's a little disappointed. For a while she'd held onto the idea that perhaps a younger variation of the alien had met her then. That would explain the red bike comment. She fiddled with the plastic straw of her soda. "Maybe the new you, then?"

"Maybe." He allows. "Why, Rose? Had an epiphany?"

Though not on that magnitude, Rose had to admit she'd had a sudden realization. "I—I think you came to me. Here. When I was twelve."

Her husband's brow furrows. "What did I look like?"

She explained the man down to every last detail down to the gray, ancient eyes, the bow tie, the suspenders and scuffed black boots (_so much like his ninth self…_), floppish hair, and angular nose. With each word his eyes grew more and more shadowed. Roses finally paused from her narrative. "Sound familiar?"

He leaned over, resting his forearms on the greasy table. Today he's in a brown suit—her favourite—and glasses, and off-white Chucks, along with his long coat. Rose had, on occasion, convinced him to wear more casual things. Today was not once of those occasions. She held her breath, waiting for him to speak. The time was passed with the quiet sipping of soda out of bright paper cups. The Doctor ran one hand through his mussed up hair, letting out a long breath.

"You might've met…me." He allowed. "A different me."

"I thought your couldn't—"

He cut across her. "I never said I can't, I just said it wasn't advisable. Apparently my newer self ignored the risk and decided to meet you over a basket of chips."

Rose considered. "So…what does this mean?"

The man sighed "It means it's really no wonder we met in that basement. The TARDIS frequently lands in familiar places, it's like…the memory is comforting. She probably felt the residual memory and decided to go for it."

His wife crinkled her nose. "So mistake landing, yeah?"

"Never said that." But they know it's true. A small grin stretches the corners of her mouth. She's about to comment when a tiny "_snuff" _sound. The baby. The parents glanced down, anxious. But she was just making sounds in her sleep. The Doctor reached over to tuck the blankets 'round his daughter a bit more tightly. Rose's smiled deepened. Domestics. He'd sworn off domestics.

He turned back to the conversation at hand. "He wanted to see you, Rose. Probably didn't even think about it. Just went."

She was twirling another greasy chip between her fingers, eyes still on the baby, whose hand waves aimlessly in the midst of sleep. Never stops moving, that one. Just like her father.

"If I knew…" His voice drifted off. Rose's eyes shift from the baby to her spouse. She took a long drag from the paper cup, letting the bubbles burst against her tongue and the brown liquid cause her cheeks to swell slightly. Sweet and cold, to be savored. She held the mouthful for a long time, until the carbonation has completely died. Then—

"Yeah." She finished for him. "Me too."

They leave the shop about twenty minutes later to continue their shopping. In the car, Rose could't help but look back, wondering about the man. About the night when she was twelve, and she met her Doctor, who wasn't really "her" Doctor. And about what he might've been thinking when they finally said goodbye.

**XXXXX**

Leaving her again (_for the last time) _was incredibly difficult (_though no worse than any other time). _Once he was around the corner he stopped, pressing his back against the yellow brick, breathing deeply. In. Out. In. Out. And in…

Out.

He honestly had not come e_xpecting _to see her, that had not been his intent. Truly, he had come to find some half-decent food. He was tired and lonely, sadden by the day's (_or had it been weeks? Hard to tell, in a time ship) _events. He wanted a quiet place to just sit and ponder, possibly over a plate of fried food (_not that he'd actually eat any of it)_. The chip shop had seemed familiar, though for the life of him he could not recall _how. _Then in walked that blond girl, and he'd realized his mistake. _Out of all the places in London…._

Sarah Jane he could stand to see. River, no problem. Martha wasn't a big deal, either and Jack would've been easy. But Rose was an entirely different matter. So, he'd sat stock-still, holding his breath, praying to whatever gods might be listening that she didn't notice him, didn't see his eyes flitting to hers every few seconds, didn't—

But she had. Quickly.

Typical, wasn't it? She never left him, not really. Rose had kept her promise. Whether this had been her intended means or not, she'd kept it.

"_How long you going to stay with me?"_

"_Forever."_

She'd said it as though the thought was perfectly natural. He never had someone so keen on staying before. Everyone saw the TARDIS as some sort of duty-free vacation. Kip in, travel for a few months, then return home, no worries. But not Rose. She had been draw to his lonely self from day one. It hadn't taken her long to devote herself completely to his lifestyle. And she kept turning up everywhere. Not that he had minded.

He'd stumble upon some remote culture, some random group of primal people. They would go through the usual ceremony, then he'd be invited to meet with the local psychic, sage, or wiseman. There would be a load of smoke and mystic talk, and then, and _then _Rose came to be the topic of conversation. The Bad Wolf. The Valiant Child. The Physician's Companion. Whatever name they choose, it was always the same.

"Rose," He breathed into the dark night, air turning to swirling mists that hung around his face, reminders of the cold he couldn't rightly feel.

He could still hear her. Walking up the stairs, across the walkway to the door, pushing the dull brass key into the lock, opening the door, entering and shutting it. He fancied he could also hear the quiet _"click" _that came with flicking on the lights. The sloshing removal of wet shoes and an overstuffed jacket. Then, (_and perhaps this was his imagination) _a soft sigh.

But he'd probably imagined it.

Without another word or thought, the Time Lord left his dark corner post to return to his ship. The next few days would probably be pure misery, as her name was right on the surface of his thoughts now. He'd be in the kitchen, or in library, in the console room, or maybe just in the hall. Something—a phrase, a word, an image—would pull that name into focus, just for an instant. But an instant would be more than enough.

He tucked his hands into his pants pockets, pushed himself off the wall, and began his return in a brisk pace, kicking up gray chunks of compacted snow with each step. Never mind the misery.

Between the chips and the girl, this accident had been worth it.


	22. Pie Cravings, My Cravings

**Pie Cravings, My Cravings**

**Rose makes apple pie from scratch. The Doctor sees a sort of grace about it. Can be 9 or 10. Written in first person. **

She has a deep look of concentration set about her face. Her hands work in a constant rhythm, a motion memorized years ago, only now brought forth by idealness. I've watched for the last twenty minutes as she has sliced and chopped, mixed and kneaded her creation into shape. Rose is set and determined on making this dish. She's been planning it for days, prattling on about how much she's missed it.

"Why," I ask over the top of my paper. "Do you want apple pie so badly?"

She has her back to me, stirring the apple-brown sugar-cinnamon-cloves-ginger-everything-but-the-kitchen-sink mixture with a worn wooden spoon. I frown. Was that mine? "Cravings. Don't you ever get them?"

"Nope." I say, popping the "_p_." "Can't say I have. Superior physiology, remember?"

Rose turns and gives me one of _those _looks. The type that clearly says _"900 years old? Yeah, right buster." _Just the kind of look to make a bloke reconsider all answers ever given throughout their entire life cycle. I'm cowed, slightly, but she's not about to see it.

"Maybe." I admit, avoiding her eyes.

"Oh no, not maybe. Do you not remember the time you took us all the way to 4506 just so you could get a particular flavour of ice cream?"

This isn't the particular kind of craving I'm thinking of, but I feel the need to but up some meek defense. "Well, it was very good ice cream."

She shakes her head. "If that's not a craving, I don't know what is."

"Oi, what about you? I can recall a time or two when you made me stop the TARDIS to fetch you chocolate! Like I'm some bleedin' page boy. Log in your eye, I'd say."

"April 2006. We were at Cardiff, on the rift refilling the TARDIS's batteries. Somebody felt the need to trek all over town for a particular kind of marmalade."

This I must protest. "That's not fair! There weren't any nearby grocers!"

Rose shrugs, going back to her apples. She clearly doesn't buy my defenses.

I'm not ready to end the topic there. While she rolls out her crust, I continue. "Time Lord. Superior physiology. Don't know how many times I need to remind you."

She sprinkles a thin layer of flour over the dough, then rubs a handful onto the roller. "So, what, you don't need to eat? Food is unnecessary, yeah?"

"I wouldn't say that. But I don't need to eat nearly so often as you, and I certainly don't get cravings."

"Not ever?" Rose raises her brows.

I turn back to my paper, flustered.

Craving. What a human concept.

But, glancing over the edge of the _Daily, _scanning over Rose's curvaceous form, I have to wonder if perhaps the human's don't have it right.

Rose catches my line of gaze. Smirking, she cocks one hip devilishly, pausing in her stirs. "Never have a want for something you just can't resist? Not ever? Not even for something besides food?"

I don't offer an answer, merely snap my paper. Her eyes stay on me, narrowed.

But she doesn't look at me for long. As carefully as though it were an egg, she lifts the flattened dough to spread it gently in the pie pan. I frown. Didn't know I had a pie pan. Huh. Learn something new every day, I suppose.

My human presses the dough into the dish, smoothing the edges. I watch. There is a sort of grace about her motion I've never seen before. Typical of Rose. She's a gymnast. Knew that from day one. But this is something deeper…sentimental. Something about apple pie she associates with happiness. Her ease and gentle manner make this all too clear.

"Why do you like pie so much?"

Startled, Rose looks up from work. "What do you mean?

I gesture to her hands. "Just look at you. You're on air. Beaming. Practically euphoric. So, what is it?"

Her eyes trail back to the crust. Now she's on the filling step, scooping out syrupy slices of granny smith into the dish. "Mum used to make it. Said it was my Dad's favourite."

I freeze. I had genuinely liked Rose's father. But regardless, even now when he was brought up, we were suddenly thrust into awkwardness. Rose chose to ignore today's stale air to continue.

"She taught me how to make it when I was little. It was one of the only good things she could actually make that wasn't from a tin." She grins softly. "I dunno. Every time I made it made me feel close to Dad." Rose colours slightly. "Silly, I know."

"No," I say softly. "Not silly."

Rose nods. She's not looking at me. "Yeah."

By now the woven top is done, and she sprinkles raw sugar onto the dough. I wordlessly stand to open the over, because I'm nearest. She slides the pie inside, then turns to find herself in my outstretched arms. A surprise to be sure, but she handles it well, wrapping herself around me with ease. My head rests on hers when she finds the crook of my neck. We stand like that for some time, soaking in the peaceful moment.

"Rose?"

"Mmmm?" Her eyes are closed.

"I'm starting to reconsider cravings."

One eye cracks open, hazel orb meeting mine with some surprise. "Oh?"

"I think sometime I might have them. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe with the right person."


	23. There are Many Ways to Have Tea

**There are many ways to have Tea**

**The stages of the Doctor's tea, through Rose's eyes. 9-11. Starts with Rose, then goes on to Father's Day, Christmas Invasion, Girl in the Fireplace, to shortly after/in Doomsday. **

Four hours after boarding his ship, she'd been asked to make tea. Rose set about making it enthusiastically, exploring the kitchen as she waited for the kettle. There were a few unrecognizable foods and unfathomable appliances, though for the most part everything was familiar and kitchen-like. When she heard the kettle whistle, Rose turned off the gas and poured the water into the pot, lowering the tea strainer after. Another five minutes, and Rose poured the steaming substance into two mugs, preparing hers with a single sugar and second's worth of cream. Then she turned to his...and realized she had no clue how he "doctored" his tea.

Rose bit her lip. Tea was not something you messed with. A person could handle a soup too salted, a hot dog without mustard, but when it came to coffee and tea it simply had to be right. It was a personal matter. A bad cup of tea could (and often would) ruin a person's day. She couldn't just hand him a full mug, shrugging. Sighing, she trudged down the TARDIS halls, leaving the two mugs behind.

She found him in the console room, where she'd left him nearly twenty minutes ago. The man lay on his back, head and shoulders under the main console, foreign tools spread out around him on the grated floor. His jacket had been slung over one of the nearest rails. Everything was cast in a slightly coppery-green glow. Rose took a breath, her gaze going from the bent knees to muscle-bound thighs, then the solid abs and bulking chest. She was rooted to the spot, unsure of TARDIS etiquette. In Mickey's shop an interrupted repair meant a severe glare. Who knew, with this mad man?

But he spoke first. "Fission cupling is going haywire. We're going to be grounded for a while. Well, but grounded I mean 'stuck in the vortex.'"

Rose wasn't sure how to respond.

"Tea done, Rose?"

"Um, almost." She began shyly. The rubber edge of her trainers grazed the edge of the grated floor as she traces a heart. Then a circle. Then, a box. A blue box, probably. "I was wondering, what…I mean, how do you take it? You tea, I mean?"

He paused underneath the console, as if held up by some great, profound realization, then said briskly. "Two sugars. No cream."

Rose nodded, only to realized he couldn't see her. "Alright. Yeah. Uh, one sec!"

Then she fled.

Underneath the console, the Doctor grinned. It would probably be the best cuppa he'd had in a while—the first one he'd had with a partner in a very long time.

**XXXXXX**

The first time he made her a cup of tea was shortly after her father died. For the third time.

She had allowed herself to be lead to the kitchen, pushed into a bar stool, and wrapped in a woolly blanket. A few minutes later, a steamy mug was pushed into her limp hands. Rose accepted it wordlessly, merely staring up at the tea's maker. She had watched him the entire time, as if worried he too would disappear in a wink if she wasn't careful. He let her.

Without remark he made a nod to the mug still in her hands. Rose gave a weak grunt and swallowed a pitiful mouthful. It was hot, and tasted of oranges and cloves. Quite nice, really. He'd sweetened it with some of that special Luthanin honey she adored. Rose set the mug down, letting the warmth spread through her body. He glanced at her disapprovingly before turning back to the kitchen at large to find some bread. It seemed no time had passed, and then he was sliding a plate with two buttered slices to rest beside the mug.

" C'mon, Rose. Eat a little." It sounded like begging. Rose took a bite. She let the buttery bit of softness slide down her throat. More tea. And he was slightly appeased. The Doctor sat beside her, radiating silent comfort.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

Rose leaned into him, humming when he wrapped his arms around her. "I'm far sorrier."

**XXXXXX**

Rose had just set on the kettle when she turned around, still humming Christmas music, to find him there. Standing in the doorway. Silent. Watching her. Chin up, eyes half-lidded.

Funny, she thought this one wasn't going to be nearly as…brooding.

Regeneration. She would probably never get used to it.

When Rose raised her brows, he ran one hand through the porcupine occupying his head. "Hi."

"'Lo." She looked away, trying to find a way 'round the awkwardness. It was like her first night all over again. Even down to the tea. _Maybe it was a mistake… _"I was just about to make tea."

He gave a small smile, acknowledging the unsaid "_Interested?"_ Rose returned the smile tentatively. Then she busied herself with finding a pair of suitable mugs. Usually when they had a cup together, she teasingly gave him the yellow cup. It was big and ugly, painted like an Impressionist floral watercolour. He claimed it was a gift, but absolutely loathed it. Whoever had given it obviously didn't know him at all. When it was his turn he made sure to give it to her, keeping the Albert Einstein mug for himself. But her favourite was the Phantom of the Opera mug, with the mask that turned red when filled with hot things.

Would they still play that game, now that he had changed?

Eventually she selected two green, nondescript cups with chipped bottoms. She couldn't ever recall using them. Probably 'cause they were way in the back, and the TARDIS had a million of mugs tucked into this one cupboard. Would he comment?

She leaned against the counter, wishing for the millionth time she knew what had happened on Satellite 5. No matter how many times she asked, he remained firm in his new "no details" rule. All he would say was, "You came back for me."

Clearly there was more to the story. More she wasn't getting.

The Doctor sighed quietly to himself. The sound was muffled by the screeching of the kettle. Rose turned off the stove, shoving on a potholder at the same time. She picked up the steaming thing and carried it across the room to where the two mugs. Normally she would just make a pot, but it was late. There wouldn't be time to consume an entire pot between them—they both needed sleep. The water was poured, causing both teabags to float to the top of the cup. Slowly, brown began to seeping out below them, spreading to the surrounding fluid. It reminded her slight of the inking of a squid, or octopus. Something you'd see on one of those nature shows. Rose waited, rubbing her arms as they waited. Finally, the Doctor spoke.

"Do you still want to go to Barcelona?"

She looked up. "Tonight?"

"No." He gaze was startled. "Not tonight, I was just thinking in general. Maybe…tomorrow? Or we could—"The Time Lord struggled to find a destination, a first. "—just play a wildcard. Go wherever."

Rose bit her lip, turning back to the tea. "Wherever?"

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck a little sheepishly. "It's up to you. It's always been up to you. So…Barcelona? Would you like that?"

Rose pulled on one teabag, jiggling it. More brown bleeds out. She had never seen him bleed. Rose wondered if his blood was the same colour as hers.

"Yeah." She finally found her voice. "Yeah, I'd like that. I'd like anywhere, really."

Her back was still too him, so she didn't catch the beaming. But it was certainly there. She was warming up to him, at least a bit. For the first time all day, he didn't feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Tea's done." Rose said suddenly. "How do you like it? Or has that not changed?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to answer, then paused. "I…dunno."

Rose frowned. "You don't know how you like it, or if you like it the same way?"

"Both."

"Ah. That could prove troublesome."

"Well," He scratched his chin, musing. A slight grin had replaced the beam. "We could always experiment."

Three hours later they can to the conclusion that he favoured a strongly brewed black (with just a hint of chamomile), three teaspoons to cream, no sugar, and—if he was feeling in a peckish mood—a dash of chili powder.

**XXXXXXX**

"Here."

The mug was placed down with such force he was surprised it didn't spilt right into two, sweeping the hot amber liquid onto the surrounding paperwork and his lap. The sound was near deafening. His eyes slowly migrated up to look over the rim of his glasses, watching the curvy form of his partner as she stalked out of the library. Then he stopped watching, unwilling to watch the door slam shut as it inevitably would. The harsh noise was unpreventable, but at the very least he didn't have to watch.

But the sound never came. Rose stopped less than a foot from the door. Her hands in fists, her eyes watering, she couldn't bring herself to go.

They had left the ship with the time windows two hours ago. It had felt like a century. Once boarding the ship the Doctor had barricaded himself in the upper library (the section overlooking the pool). Mickey, seeing Rose's flared nostrils (a sure sign of frustration) and quickly reddening eyes (possibly allergies, but most likely tears), fled to his room. And Rose drifted into the kitchen. After a quick cry she did what her mother always did in a personal crisis, what her grandmother had always done in a crisis, what every proper British woman does in a crisis: she made tea.

It turned out to be very salty tea, as a whole new wave a crying started up in the middle, and a few tears leaked into her drink. It was unattractive. But Rose didn't care.

After her tea, Rose realized that she wasn't only one who needed a good cuppa. Another person on board was emotionally distraught, even if he didn't want to admit it. The Doctor. As frustrated, as heartbroken, as angry as she might be with him, Rose knew he'd do the same in her shoes. So, she started the kettle up once more.

So she'd come to him, still mad, with a hot cup of unsweetened Darjeeling and fake airiness he couldn't even begin to buy. She stood before that door, hand pulling back from the handle, holding her breath. Then—

"Rose."

That was it. No declarations. No apologies. Just "Rose."

But it was enough.

She swung back around, eyes bursting. He crossed the room in three quick strides to sweep her up. In no time they'd sunk to sit against the door, tangled. His suit ended up getting dampish. He couldn't find it within himself to be bothered by it.

The tea grew cold, so she made him a new cup later, when the tears had subsided.

**XXXXXX**

"Rose, you've got to eat something."

The words remind her of the first time he had ever made her tea, after her father had died. This was worse. Much worse. Rose felt as though she were the one dead. All sense had left her; all responses involved too much effort. Unwilling to move, Rose sat motionless in the overstuffed floral armchair in the Tyler's new sitting room. Well, new to her and Jackie. Pete had owned this chair for years, owned this house for decades.

She couldn't bring herself to answer her mother. The Doctor was…gone. Just gone.

Or was she the one gone?

After all, she was the one who had up and disappeared from their universe. Not he. Yes, she was the one who was "gone." Far and gone and merely a memory.

But not forever. He might find someone else, he might not think about her nearly so often, but Rose wouldn't give her memory a chance to fad. She wouldn't be forgotten. Rose Tyler would find a way back. Somehow.

"Rose…please."

Her daughter's burning gaze suddenly flickered up. Jackie was startled. Between the glazed eyes and pale flesh, Rose looked like a shade for herself.

"What do you want, love? I can make you anything, or…ah, have one of the help make you anything, if you'd rather. What is it you'd like?"

"Tea." Was all Rose would croak out. "I want tea."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

After taking care of the loud and obnoxious Donna, the Time Lord spend an ungodly amount of time in the console room, making various repairs he's neglected for decades, reformatting computing systems. He would no longer need the universe canon. It was beyond use now, anyways, since he'd drained a small sun to send a message across the cracks. Cracks still open in tiny fractions. Cracks that he could, if he wanted, slip through. He could find her. Settle. Get a house, mortgage, a dog.

No.

When his back began to ache, limbs grew stiff, and vision just a little too blurry for his liking, the Doctor called it quits. He slunk into the kitchen, slogging off his jacket. The pinstripe was rank. He really ought to be ashamed. Between the pit-stained shirt and one hundred-and-twenty-five hours' worth of five o'clock shadow, he was a right mess. Talk about sore eyes. _"Even mine are getting a little sting." _He mused, watching his reflection in the toaster.

He didn't need food like humans did. At least, not nearly as often. Though, from his estimation, he might have been approaching that point.

"_Take it easy," _Jackie would scold when Rose brought him home to her mother. She's make a fuss over his this form, Rose's claims that he hadn't consumed a solid meal in over a week. _"Start with tea, then toast, and maybe something a little hardier. Honestly, you act like you've never been fed before in your life…"_

And he hadn't. Not by Jackie. Bad cook as she was, Jackie knew how to feed a man, and feed him well.

The Doctor filled the kettle, fired up the stove, and stood back. Rose usually made the tea. Not because she was woman, necessarily, but because she simply made better tea. Sure, he could boil the water, put in a tea bag, add cream, sugar, etc. But Rose made it into an art form. Every cup she had placed in front of him had willowy spindles of steam, a clear amber surface, and sweet, warm, nutty taste.

He would miss that.

The sight of brewing tea reminded him of conversation they'd had right after she'd come on to the TARDIS. He'd taken her to a party in the nineteen-twenties. One of those crazy, _Great Gastby_ sort of affairs. Not his style, but she'd mentioned her love of the era, how when she was in school and they had annual costume parties she went as a flapper. So, he'd popped 'round east coast America, and they attended one lavish affair. Rose was quite impressed. When the night was done she begged to stay just a little longer. He could see it—she'd fallen in love with the time. Rose had made friends in that easy sort of way, danced with many men, learned songs and slang, made promises. But he shook his head, dragging her back to the ship with a muted expression upon his hard features.

"_Rose, you have to understand we're just visitors. It's a day trip, not a vacation. Can't stay for too long, or else…you get attached. The time weaves through you, through your body like an embroidery, a tattoo. A virus. After awhile your body realizes something isn't right. It might reject the change, you know, as it would a bad blood transfusion. We can't stay."_

"_Not even for another day?" _

He had let out a sigh, long and loud. _"You're new to this. And, unlike me, you've not got the physiology to handle such a rapid change in time for any long period. Rose, I'm sorry."_

At this, she huffed slightly, clear put out. Irritated, the Doctor had turned away, flipping up a few levers on the console, setting coordinates for the Vortex. Behind him, he heard her moving to sulk out. Releasing a groan, the Time Lord whirled around to face her retreating back. Decided it would probably be best to follow his huffy companion, he stalked behind her as she stormed into the kitchen.

He winced upon entering, as she had just slammed the kettle into the sink, thrusting the faucet handle up with a violence he'd never predicted.

"_Rose…"_

"_What?"_

"…_please?"_

She paused.

"_Why couldn't we just stay?"_

"_Why didn't you want to leave?"_

"_I liked being there."_

"_Rose…Why stand in one place, when there are so many places to out there to see? Why not dance through it all, go through the motions and find that place you really want to be, out there in a whole sea of stars?"_

"_But I don't need to __find__ anything. I know where that place is." _

"_Alright. Where is it you want to be?"_

"_Right here, next to you. Better with two, right? "_

After the liquid darkened to a deep tawny, he poured in the appropriate amount of cream. Settling into the bar, the Time Lord felt his loneliness weigh upon him as it never had before. He had not had a cup alone, by himself, in almost two years. Sure, there had been late nights unaccompanied in the kitchen while Rose slept, but never truly _alone. _She was always just down the hall, or in library. In the greenhouse, or observatory. Somewhere.

And it had been sometime since he had drunk in complete silence. Typically there was lively conversation. He remember this, remember their last dialogue, when he saw her chipped pink mug in the sink, brown ring of tea still at the bottom. Her last cup. Next to it sat his last cup, the Einstein mug.

"_You never took me to Barcelona." _Her expression had been one of mild musing.

He had stopped drinking mid-sip. _"I didn't, did I? Still interest?"_

"_Always." _Rose had smiled so easily, resting her chin on her open palm. _"Maybe after a visit to Mum's….?"_

The Doctor had groaned. _"Ah, typical! Always rushing off to mum before she'll go away with me. Like she needs permission, or something. Domestics." _But he was teasing, and they both knew it.

Why had they never gone to Barcelona?

There was final swallow in the bottom of the cup. He tossed it back, then put the mug back on the counter, cradling it between his man-y, hairy hands. After a long pause, in which he ran worn, calloused fingers over the rim of the mug, the Doctor stood and left the room, only back tracking once to turn the kitchen light off. The TARDIS probably would've done it for him no problem. Yet he felt obligated, in some sense.

Obligations. He sneered slightly at the word, sneered for himself and at himself. He had so many obligations to her he never fulfilled. So many times he was supposed to save her, so many times he failed and she was there to save herself. So many evenings without a good-night kiss, questions ignored, promises forgotten…

Yet there were many things he hadn't botched. Stories he'd remembered to tell. Laundry moved to the dryer. Umbrellas pulled out of forgotten pockets when rain snuck up on them. Hair brushed out of hazel eyes. Hands held in intense moments of fright, anger, or sorrow. Hours and hours of holding her when the tears (and sometimes snot, included) refused to subside. And quiet afternoons spend with nothing more than sweet silences and even sweeter tea.

He had failed her, his Rose. But then again, he'd also improved her life, just as she'd improved his tenfold. Even in the wake of his pain, he knew he would not exchange a single moment with her to rid himself of it. She wouldn't. Rose had said she'd take the monsters, the aliens, the danger and dying over staying on the Estates, never meeting him.

"_Why stand in one place, when there are so many places to out there to see? Why not dance through it all, go through the motions and find that place you really want to be, out there in a whole sea of stars?"_

"_But I don't need to __find__ anything. I know where that place is." _

"_Alright. Where is it you want to be?"_

"_Right here, next to you."_

**This was barely edited. Sorry. I hope you've enjoyed it. I've gotten…2 or three prompts sitting on file right now, but I'll not turn any down. Thank you for reading, look forward to your reviews! **


	24. Strawberry Fields Forever

**Strawberry Fields Forever**

**The Doctor and Rose pick strawberries. This is for ****jokergirl4ever. ****It was the last prompt, but the one I foresaw as taking the least amount of time. I've still got one baby food piece, and a Psych crossover that have been requested. Don't worry, they're on the way. **

**I hope you enjoy this. First person again, Rose's POV. 10/Rose. Obviously I got a bit of inspiration from the Beatle's hit song. All lyrics are theirs, not mine. And neither is Doctor Who.**

"C'mon! They're perfect."

I have to agree. Nestled in the bright greenery, the buds of shining red fruit look absolutely gorgeous. Their vivid scarlet flesh reflects the morning light with abundant joy. Can fruit be happy? They look so content, so lovely and brilliant. I feel a little guilty, considering we're intent on dislodging them from their perches, where they seem so very happy. Perfect, as he said.

Already my partner has skipped out the middle of the field, great brown jacket billowing out behind him, chucking up new earth in his wake. The Converse trainers are getting brown on the rims with the black soil. His smile flashes toward me as he turns, a beacon of sorts.

"C'mon, Rose!" He calls again.

Laughing, I follow him. Though I'm just dressed in jeans and a t-shirt (a very nice t-shirt, in my defense), I feel like a princess running across that field toward him. He always makes me feel like this. Like I'm wrapped in miles of gold, not just cheap cotton and worn denim with pink and white trainers. "It's not like they're going to run away, Doctor." I chide gently.

He grins. That smile has me stumbling, and I trip over one row right into his arms. Then we're laughing together as I cling to his lapels, shaking in unison with good humor and pure happiness. Things should always be like this. The Doctor's laughing fades as he reaches up to push back a few locks of my hair (which, I notice, require some highlighting, but he doesn't seem to care), fingering the coloured threads until the wind steals them from his fingers. I press closer, enjoying the feel of his lanky form around me. Wordlessly, I smooth out the lapels I had crumpled between my palms. His chin finds a resting spot on the top of my skull. This moment should never end.

"You're right. We have all the time in the world, Rose. All the time in the universe."

I hum. He rubs my back, murmuring words in Gallifreyan.

Maybe it's the location, maybe it's the rhythm of his words, but I'm struck with a memory of my Mum, singing in the kitchen.

_Let me take you down  
Cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields  
Nothing is real  
And nothing to get hung about  
Strawberry Fields forever_

_Living is easy with eyes closed_  
_Misunderstanding all you see_  
_It's getting hard to be someone_  
_But it all works out_  
_It doesn't matter much to me…_

She told me all about the time she saw the Beatles in concert when she was 13. "Strawberry Fields" was always a favourite in the Tyler household. It was Mum's favourite for sure. Reminded her of date, or something, she'd had with my dad.

"_Out to the countryside, Rose," _she said. _"In the spring time. We had a right nice picnic, in a meadow by a stream. 'Course, it was somebody elses' property. Pete didn't know, so we were kicked off_ _by some mad farmer. Ended up in the local chipper, with nothing but a box of strawberries…." _There she always sighed. _"It was brilliant, Rose."_

"Shall we?" The Doctor interrupted his murmurs to ask. I nod against his shoulder. He steps away, pulling out a pair of basket from his endless pockets. "There! Well…" One pastel coloured plastic thing is clearly from an Easter long past. I giggle.

"Yes, let's." Taking my hand, he bounds forward. We pick and pick until our baskets are full, which takes some time for the Doctor retains a philosophy of eating between each handful. I find he likes strawberries nearly as much as bananas. He teases me occasionally, holding one plump berry to my lips, only to pull it away and pop it into his own gob. There is a lot of chatter and hand holding, silly jokes and sanguine-stained lips.

"Strawberry Fields Forever." I whisper before taking a bite of the crimson berry. I don't know where we are, what time, or for how long we've been here. I don't _care. _

The sweet flesh melts in my mouth. In the background, the Doctor is going on about the polyploidy nature of strawberries. Sighing, I lean against him. If I had it my way, we would be here forever. In strawberry fields, lazy afternoons, and sweet hours.

**Thank you so much for all the reviews and prompts! You've been great readers, and I adore your reviews. We hit over 100 this week. Thank you! **


	25. Popcorn!

**Popcorn **

**Rose wakes one sleep cycle to the smell of popcorn, finding the Doctor eating it while watching "Hot Fuzz" 10/Rose**

It was the smell. Crisp and hot and _buttery. _Rose sat stock-straight up in bed, throwing her fists onto the pink duvet. She recognized it, it was very familiar, but…_what? _Rose closed her eyes, inhaling. The Doctor rarely slept, often opting to stay up 'round the clock to make repairs or indulge in whatever hobbies he'd picked up over the years. Cooking had not been, last time she checked, one of those hobbies. She sniffed again. Still not a clue. Hesitating briefly (_What if he was in the middle of something private?), _Rose crept out of her room, padding down the grated hall in fluffy pink slippers, tugging her robe around her tighter.

The scent eventually lead her to the living room. Well, makeshift living room. It was the Doctor's movie room, which she had converted to a sitting room upon her arrival. He didn't do much telly watching prior to Rose moving in. Once she had settle and introduced him to a few of her favourite shows, he'd practically become an addict, keeping better track of the going ons of _What Not to Wear _and _Big Brother _better than she did.

Rose reached the door and stopped. She heard voices coming from inside, but the bass wasn't right. Two of those voices were from the stereo, not living voices.

"Doctor…" Her voice trailed off upon the sight of him spread across the tomato-coloured couch, Converse-encases feet up over the back edge and in the air, head resting on one plump cushion. Spikes of brown hair can be seen over the edge of the arm. Did he ever gel it, or was the spikiness a natural effect?

The position and posture wasn't the weird thing. The big teal plastic bowl of popcorn and the over-the-top zombie massacre scene of _Shaun of the Dead _was. She didn't even know he knew _Shaun of the Dead _existed. But there he was, all laughing his gob off at the sight of blood and gore. Him, the pacifist alien! Chuckling over a zombie parody! Rose, still in the door way, blinked. The Doctor glanced up, looked back the screen, then look back to her, sitting up quick enough to spill about half of his popcorn.

"Rose!" It is practically a gasp. She would have giggled, if she wasn't so shell-shocked herself. He ran one lanky hand through already mussed hair, and the effect is absolutely adorable.

"What are you doing?" She gestured to the room at large. His eyes follow her hands as she moves to tug the robe tighter around her body, shivering.

"Are you cold?" He asked, concerned. Without another sound, he tugs her on to the couch beside him, passing her a microfiber throw from the nearest armchair. She spreads it over her half-bare legs, smoothing out all the wrinkles uselessly.

"I…couldn't sleep—"

"Didn't even try, I'm sure."

He ignored her. "—And thought I'd catch up on my comedies. This is rather good. Loads like _Hot Fuzz. _Good movie, that. Lots of blunt humor._" _

When she blinks he coughed and excused himself, making a mumbled comment about the future and not giving away spoilers. Rose shook her head, rolling her eyes heavily.

"Have you seen this?" The Doctor inclined his head to the screen. Rose admitted that she had in the theaters with Mickey less than two years ago. At Mickey's name the Time Lord scowls. Rose chooses to ignore this, deciding instead to prattle on a bit about just how much she enjoyed the film.

"May I…?"

"What?" His eye widened, then—"Oh, yes! Of course!"

She's nestled against his shoulder, contentedly watching Simon Pegg kill his zombie mum when the Doctor asked quietly, "Couldn't sleep, eh?"

Rose snorted. "Not with that smell."

"Wot? Wot smell?" He demanded.

"This smell!" She dug a hand into the popcorn bowl, lifting up a small handful of the buttery stuff. "Crept into my room, woke me up. Not very subtle, yeah? What, did you spike it with garlic?"

From the slight colour in his cheeks, she knew she was not far off.

"Like it?"

Rose munches slowly. "Yeah. I suppose."

"Good." They settle back in to watch the last fifteen minutes of the film, Rose occasionally sneaking a piece of popcorn, eyes glued to the screen. At one point, the Doctor, who had been consuming a rather large handful of the buttery treat, had laughed allowed, spraying the camel-coloured carpet with bits of half-chewed pieces of yellow popcorn. Rose shrieked indignantly, scooting away from the nasty downpour. The alien apologized meekly. Seeing his chastised frown, lower lip wobbling dramatically, Rose leaned against him once more, sighing contentedly when his arms hesitantly raised and lowered to wrap around her.

The pattern of breath is what lulls her to sleep, along with his doubt heartbeat. Then he follows, and they lay across the couch until long after the credits roll. When Rose does wake nearly an hour later she simply pulls the ottoman closer, tugs on the microfiber throw, and snuggles closer.

There was no real reason to wake.

**I need to post two more prompts and some 9! Dang, it's been a while. Lately I've have rush of 11 and 10, time to shake this part up with some 9 action. I dearly miss him. **


	26. Oh, Baby

**Oh Baby...**

**Jack and the Doctor try a new food found in a Ysak market. Rose has some revelations. 9/Rose/Jack. **

**We finally get some 9 again! Were you getting sick of 11? **

**Hey Sydney Carter, this is for you!**

"I do not like the looks of that."

Jack's neck twisted around to find a bemused and amused Time Lord leaning in the doorway of the dining room. The Captain sat at the formal marble-topped table, feet kicked up on the smooth surface. The Doctor eyed his boots with a quiet distain, then trained his keen blue gaze onto the small glass bowl resting in Jack's palm. It was filled with a grayish soft substance, not quite solid, but neither liquid. Jack was stirring the not-liquid-not-solid with a spoon.

"What is it?" The Doctor stalked into the room, placing massive hands on one of the scroll chairs, running one thumb over the black surface. He rather liked this table set. It had been a gifted from the queen of the Anatolian district when he saved her people from a miserable drought. She had been so please she had also included a fine china set, though he was sure where that currently was. Possible one of the lower kitchen cabinets. Maybe a linen cupboard.

Jack shrugged. "I dunno. Picked it up at the market while you were haggling in that stand. Lady promised it'd be easy on the stomach, I think. Hard to tell around those tusks."

"Typical Ysak lisp," The Doctor agreed. "Even I have trouble hearing what they're blabbin' on about, an I got a time machine translatin' for me."

He wasn't sure he liked Jack. The jury was still out on his case. The odds had been against him-he was a pretty boy, he was cocky, flirted too much, was too loud, could be a complete know-it-all, and, worst of all, Rose liked him. Rose flirted with him. Rose went 'round calling him _Captain _this, and _Captain _that. And he let her, the stupid pretty boy. Just sat back and took it, with that look on his face…smug and pompous little….

Still…he didn't seem to see Rose as anything more than a friend. He'd flirted initially, then (with the aid of a few _pointed _look from a certain Time Lord) backed off to a more friendly tone. Besides, pretty boy knew his way around a time ship. This asset was infinitely helpful when the Doctor made his repairs.

"What does it taste like?"

Jack peered into the mush. "…fruity. Maybe like blueberries."

"Maybe?"

"You try it-not exactly a solid sort of flavour."

So the Doctor reached across the table to grab the Captain's spoon, taking a small scoop. Swirling the mush around his mouth, he considered. It was fruity, but still bland. Smooth, with no chunks or bits. A little dull as far as food went.

Finally he gave his conviction. "Kippanese bungle fruit."

"Really?" Jack looked doubtful. "Nah, it's more common than that."

A small snort came from the doorway the Doctor had just vacated. Both men turned. Rose's eyebrows threatened to disappear into her hair line. Her lips were pursed into a thin line, which usually indicated a bit a humor about her air.

Jack's eyes followed her, then swiftly turned to the Time Lord. The cool blue orbs sat firmly on her, unwavering. Jack smirked. Ever since seeing the pair together in that hospital, he'd felt their chemistry, their undeniable bond. From the start he'd assumed her attachment had been far deeper than his, then just as quickly changed his guess when he observer the gruff Time Lord's tenderness toward the 21st century human girl. His was possibly a profounder connection, deeper than Jack could fathom. Rose was a sweet thing, yes. Nice on the eyes, easy on the figure. But a human. A relatively simple human.

Each to his own. Though, the Doctor hadn't seemed to keen on actually _claiming _"his own," as Jack found out while discussing Rose's relationship with Mickey. Rose, who usually prattled on about the distant stars, was rather reluctant to discuss her home life. Maybe it was a general distaste, or the brooding look cast over her alien companion's face when ever her boyfriend's name arose in conversation. Whatever it was, Rose didn't like it. And it was clearly Mickey who was preventing the pair from coming together-so Jack thought.

Then the relationship had ended in Cardiff. Rose had retreated to a good cry and an even better cuppa in the drawing room. Jack pushed the grumpy Time Lord to speak with her.

"C'mon. She could really use a friend."

"Then you go to her."

"I think you'd be more welcome."

"I disagree." The Doctor said brusquely, pushing himself off from the grated floor of the console room, where he'd been making some minor repairs prior to their trip to Raxacoricofallapatorius. He rubbed his greasy hands on a bit of cloth, legs firmly apart as he observed the ex-Time Agent. "In fact, absolutely not. S'not my place."

Dumbfounded, Jack barked out a laugh. "Not your place?"

"No. Not my place."

"Why?"

The Doctor turned away, occupying himself with the knobs and levers of the consol, still rubbing his hands with the raggedy cloth. For a moment, Jack was reminded of Lady Macbeth, washing her hands of Duncan's blood.

_Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!—One; two: why, then  
'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky.—Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier, and  
afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our  
pow'r to accompt?—Yet who would have thought the old man to  
have had so much blood in him?_

What was the Doctor was cleaning his hands of? The intentional destruction of Rose's relationship?

"'S just not." He said quietly. "Leave her alone, Jack. She needs a chance to cry it out."

"She needs a friend!" Jack crossed his arms. "And you know her better than I do. I'd get all awkward about it."

"And I wouldn't?" The Time Lord chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, I'd make a right mess of things. Bulky old me, probably prattle on about how everything has it's end, how he was never good enough for her, how she deserved someone smarter, better, more ambitious and able. Tell her she needs someone more than a pretty boy, needs someone like-Leave her alone." He repeated suddenly, stopping himself with unnatural abruptness. "Just-leave her alone."

"I will." Jack promised. "But you can't."

And then he made his exit, hoping his imparting words might lead the Doctor toward some sort of action. They really did deserve one another.

Jack was jolted back to the present by Rose's motion.

"Wot's that?" She asked casually, drifting in. Her trainers scuffed along the polished floor. The Doctor flinched at the sound, but Jack appeared unaffected, standing to hold the dish out to her.

"I was told it was a nutrition mixture. What they eat on Ysak in the 45th century, I guess. Made for nutrients, not taste, ya know?"

"Oh, yeah." Still, she looked as though she was suppressing laughter. The Doctor's eyes narrowed.

"You going to try it, Rose?" Which translated into _"What's so funny, then?"_

Though she met his eyes and accepted the message, Rose didn't answer the silent query. Instead she pushed the small bowl away, saying, "Nah, I've gotta go…read. Yeah. Sorry."

As she drifted back out, shoulders quivering from the contained laughter, Jack continued with, "Well, I still think it's something more common than, maybe dehydrogenated raspberry. Taste is very familiar…."

When Rose rounded the corner she finally burst out, clutching her aching ribs. Oh, this was brilliant. Completely brilliant. Fantastic, even, as the Doctor would say. If she hadn't stopped by that Ysak woman with the baby while waiting in line for the bathroom, she wouldn'tve known, of course. But that made it all the better. Poor sods didn't have a clue. What did Jack think, when he was buying, that the Ysak didn't eat solids? Well, it didn't matter. They were never going to know. Yes, this was tidbit Rose was saving for herself, to look back upon years from now and howl until her teeth fell out.

No, her boys would never know they'd been partaking of Ysakan baby food.

**Okay, I've gotten a load of prompts, everything from cupcakes to pancakes! Thank you so much for these and the reviews, I love 'em. Look for a short separate one-shot from Jack's POV relating to the Shakespeare quote part. Much of it will be from this text, only extended. **

**As always, thank you for reading, thank you for all the reviews thus far, and please keep them up! **


	27. Leftovers

**Leftovers**

**This is a pretty short scene. I thought it'd been a while since I updated. I'm still working on Pineapples. Enjoy! **

**This is either 10 or 9. I thought of Nine while writing it, though either would work. **

"I'm not cooking." Rose announced to the kitchen at large, flinging her weary body onto one of the bar stools. It emitted a squeak of protest under her weight, which she ignored.

The Doctor followed behind her, leaning heavily on the counter. "Second." He groaned.

She shot him a look of pity. Today had been particularly difficult. It started with a bit of a crash landing, then progressed to a long swing through a sticky, perilous Amazonian river on the planet of Plaxy. This river was known for its giant eels, though the Doctor hadn't been kind enough to inform her prior to their impromptu swim. She'd been pulled under while he gave a nearby Gongi frog a lecture on quantum physics. For nearly five minutes he rambled before realizing his lovely Rose was nowhere in sight.

She'd been pulled out fairly quickly after that, even more wet and disgruntled, and he'd decided maybe it was time to return to the TARDIS.

She was finger-combing her hair delicately. "So…what are we going to eat, then? Takeout?"

The Doctor's nose scrunched. "Had that last week."

Rose pouted. "Then you come up with something."

Heaving a sigh, the Time Lord crossed to the fridge, letting it swing open on its hinges. He peered inside, face pinched. "Well…." He started slowly. "There's always leftovers."

Standing, Rose approached the fridge, poking his shoulder as a _"Move over." _She silently scanned its contents, tilting her head. Finally, she stepped away. She went to the nearest cabinet, and gathered two plates.

"Leftovers it is." She sighed. Curry, popcorn balls, and hamburger would make an odd combination...


	28. Oatmeal

**Oatmeal **

**9/Rose**

**It's the Doctor's turn to make breakfast.**

**-XXX-**

It was lumpy and grey and completely unappetizing.

Rose stared into the bowl, as if determined to send it back to the bowels of the refrigerator. Her spoon spun in the dish, slowly through the gloppy concoction. No amount of sugar, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, fruit, candies, or nuts could possibly improve this creation. Not even by a fraction. It was soppy and just….

"Like it, Rose?" He peered across the table, brows raised and spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Um…" She hesitated. "I think I need some juice." She flew out of her seat to the cabinet, retrieving a stout glass from its depths.

"Alright," He twisted in his seat, frowning as he watched her slowly fill the cup with orange juice. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah!" She spun around quickly. A smile was plastered across her face. "Completely fine. Just a little sleepy."

"Alright." He said again, brows furrowed.

She approached the table again, slowly and quietly with her glass in hand. The Doctor sipped his tea and watched her from the edge of the rim. Rose looked right back, taking a small swig from her glass. Her lips twisted at the slightly bitter taste. He rolled his eyes. _"Humans."_

In response, Rose crossed her eyes. _"Oh, like you're any better."_

His lips quirked. Then, after a pause, his large ears wiggled.

Rose choked on juice. The Doctor sat back, amused and slightly smug. She shook her head. _"Wait."_

She took a deep breath, and then her nose twitched. Left. Right. Left. Right.

The Doctor let out a quiet chuckle. _"You look like a rabbit." _

"_Better than an idiot."_

"_Oi! Eat you breakfast."_His eyes trailed down to her untouched bowl. Rose made a face.

"Wot? Don't like my cooking?"

Rose snorted and shook her head. "Let me just put it this way…I'll make breakfast, from now on."

"But you said I need to pitch in more with meals—"

"Forget what I said!" She cut over him. "Just forget it. I'll make breakfast."

"Fine, Rose." He shrugged, taking another bite of his oatmeal. Rose nodded.

"Alright then. I'm going to get dressed." She left, placing her bowl in the sink, wincing when she washed out the gloopy mix.

Once he was sure she was down the corridor, the Doctor rose on tiptoe, bowl in hand, and pour its contents down the drain. He was brilliant.

**-XXX-**

**I'm still working on pineapples! Sorry, it's proving to be a challenge.**

**Did anyone watch the wedding yesterday? Was anyone actually there, in the streets?**

**Well, I hope you've enjoyed this short short. Don't forget to leave a review, if you feel so inclined. Also, I've recently posted two new stand-alone ficts: a two chapter "Damn'd Spot," which has a flash from "Oh, Baby" expanded, and "In a Moment," my first River-11. Please check 'em out. **

**Would anyone be willing to beta Hungover if I extended it to three chapters and made it into its own piece? **

**As always, thank you for reading! **


	29. Rainbows and Birthdays

**Rainbow Sprinkle Cupcakes**

**Prompt from my lovely reader MayFairy. **

**For any of my River Song fans, I've started a new one-shot bit sort of like this entitled "MisMatched Affair of Irreconcilable Lives." Please read and review!**

**And thank you for all the reviews.**

**-XXX-**

When he found her in the kitchen, she was holding a plastic container carefully, tipping it over a small frosted cake, and tipping it gently. Once. Twice. Three times. She was concentrating, biting her tongue and furrowing her eyebrows. The blond hair had been pulled into a messy bun, which he proceeded to play with, running the silky strands through a few fingers and looming over her bent form to watch her.

Rose wiggled beneath him, shaking her head slowly. "Busy."

"Wha-?" He stopped. That was the word he always used when she intruded his space in the console room while doing repairs. The Doctor scowled. "Rose, you're decorating cakes."

"Cupcakes." She corrected. "And I'm not merely decorating; I am exerting my artistic ability upon them."

"Fine."

"And you should help."

"Wha—" The Doctor shook his head. "Busy."

"Right." She snorted.

"I'm a Time Lord. We don't decorate cakes."

"Cupcakes. And that doesn't mean anything, you can decorate cupcakes like every other bloke."

"Rose, I'm not just a blok-"

Then she gave him that look. The one that clearly said _"I'm-not-going-to-even-pretend-to-consider-that-you-great-oaf."_ Frowning (she called it pouting), he crossed his arms.

"Time Lords don't just go around putting sprinkles on _cupcakes_! Let me have some dignity, Rose."

"No." And she smiled.

After fetching himself an apron (the most masculine on he could find) the Time Lord stood beside her, huffing slightly. Rose laughed. "Pouting is not becoming."

"Oi! I'm not pouting."

"Oh, yes you are! A bird could land on your lower lip!" This comment naturally caused his lip to push out even further. She laughed again, then took him by his stiff elbows to direct him toward the counter nearest her own work space. Sprinkle canisters, tubs of icing and bags with pointy, sculpted tips, filled with violently coloured frosting sat waiting. He was please to see edible ball bearings, though he didn't mention this.

"So, I'll frost, you sprinkle?"

His only response was a grunt as he reached for one iced cake. Rose grinned, nudging him. "Fun, yeah?"

"Yeah."

They worked in silence for a few minutes until Rose said, almost hesitantly, if one could hear past her breezy tone. "After we're done, we need to stop by Mum's."

"Why do we need to see Jackie?" He asked, suspiciously.

Rose shrugged, nonchalant. "No reason, just haven't seen her in a while."

"We visited last week. She hit me with a tin of herring when I came out of the loo, do you remember?"

"Oh? Was it only last week? Hard to remember in a time ship." Rose smiled. "Besides, I'm used to seeing her every day…."

**-XXX-**

He knew they were in trouble when he saw the cars around the Estate. Eight of them, to be exact, almost twice more than usual. Then the balloons above the flat's doorway, and the crowd of people inside…presents stacked on the coffee table, more balloons on the ceiling. And then…

The cake.

"Happy Birthday, Mum!" Rose practically squealed. He winced at the shrillness of her mother's reply.

"I thought you couldn't make it!"

"Change of plans." She beamed. "Right, Doctor?"

He coughed. "Yeah. Right. Change of our…our plans."

Jackie eyed him for a full minute before pulling him into a tight hug. "You're all right." She whispered. "All right."

From over Jackie's shoulder he glared at his companion. Rose just smiled.


	30. Pineapples

**Pineapples **

**Shawn Spencer meets the Doctor and Rose. 9-Rose. **

**This prompt is from Fantasy Chick. " I have a prompt for you, what would happen if a certain Banana obsessed Alien just happened to meet a Pineapple obsessed fake Psych detective? And just how would Rose deal with the impossible two? In case you don't know who I mean I'm referring to Shawn Spencer from the TV show Psych."**

**I know you're a 9 fan, and I started with 10, but decided to switch it. **

"Welcome to Santa Fe!" The Doctor threw open the doors, beaming proudly as his partner stepped forward to peer out the wood door frame. Rose took one look at the palm trees and seaside, then turned to him, eye brows raised. The Doctor frowned, popping his head around the corner to see what had surprised her.

"Oh…." He coughed awkwardly, giving her a rather sheepish grin. "Welcome to Santa Barbara!"

Rose moved passed him with a heavy, overly-dramatic eye roll. But he could feel the amusement of her motions. "Easy to mess all those 'Santas' up, I suppose."

"A bit, yeah."

"So…" She looked 'round, one hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes. "What do we do now?"

"I think," He paused, viewing the horizon. They had landed on one of the craggy mountains, high above the city. "We should go to the beach."

Rose grinned. He took her hand, and they were off toward the Californian city.

**XXXXXXX**

"Shawn!"

"Mmmmh?" The young man turned to his companion, mouth stuffed with half of a mustard-only hot dog. His friend shook his head disgustedly.

"You couldn't even wait till we sat down?" He asked, placing his own frank onto the bleached surface of the wooden picnic table primly.

Mouth still full, Shawn nodded. No, he could not wait, not when that juicy piece of processed meat was sitting there in that still-warm bun. Besides, he had a lot to tell Gus, and he didn't want to waste time eating. That was the whole reason why they had come to the park in the first place. Well, that and the fact that it was a beautiful day. And he had been yearning for hot dogs all week.

"Did you just get mustard?" Gus wrinkled his nose. Shawn nodded again. He was planning on getting another one, once Gus had finished his first. The mustard was wonderful—he loved the tang. Really played with the taste buds. Shawn swallowed.

"I think O'Hara is keeping something from us on the O'Mallory case."

Gus narrowed his eyes. "Why would you think that, Shawn? We were given the case. Full rights."

"Yeah, but, I've just got this nagging feeling that we're being kept out of the loop. Like, maybe Jules is holding back. Just a bit. She and Laddie keep exchanging glances like…like…." Shawn snapped his fingers. "You know, like they're hiding secrety-things."

"You're imagining things, Shawn."

Shawn shook his head. "You just need to pay attention."

"I'm not the one who needs to pay attention. Maybe if you had paid attention in school, instead of designing Evil Knievel costumes in your Science notebook, then maybe you'd be an actual detective, instead of a psychic!"

Shawn sighed, staring out into the park scenery. Families were walking on the asphalt paths—small children in strollers, moms in stylish sweats, dogs on flashing chain leashes. It was a typical day in Santa Barbra. Bright, fresh sunshine, friendly natives, scary crimes. Like the O'Mallory case, a tricky, troubling series of thievery ending in a brutal murder of a museum curator. All parties involved in the investigation agreed that it hadn't been planned, but was most likely a tragic mistake.

All parties, of course, except for Shawn. Something just didn't add up. The curator was usually at the museum around that time, nine p.m., closing the place up. Every night she made her rounds, inspecting the exhibits. And so far in the thefts, they had been excruciatingly planned out, exact with time and tools. What would have caused the thief to break his habit, get sloppy, and not do his research?

_Unless it's not our thief…._

But everyone insisted he was wrong, just wrong. The trademark of a painted "x" across the nearest window was there, the style, the tools! Everything fit, everything matched. Shawn was just wrong.

He watched the park's occupants, eating his hot dog slowly. Gus was quiet beside him, also watching. There was Soccer Mom, in her pearls and yellow track suit, holding her child's hand, a Blackberry, and power-walking. Park Maintenance Guy, with his orange weedeater (the second best one). Mrs. Bently, taking her mid-afternoon walk with Mimsy, her yorkie. Harold-the-Hot-Dog-Seller (whose real name was Lawrence) was servicing two customers. Two customers that were very interesting.

Shawn went into psych mode.

_Man—Bulky, high and tight cut, long nose, military type._

_Walks with purpose_

_Black, heavy leather jacket—in California?_

_Easy, laid-back grin._

_Woman—dyed hair, brown roots, no jewelry._

_Sneakers, fitted t-shirt, shorts, sunglasses. _

_Lip gloss. Bright pink._

_Cute._

"Shawn?"

_Very cute._

"Shawn."

He blinked. Gus nudged him, frowning. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be right back. Need another hot dog."

Gus eyed the half-finished frank abandoned on the table, but didn't comment.

Shawn slid up to the hot dog cart, eyes never leaving the young blond. She wasn't exactly, pale or tan, just sort of between. Her teeth were a tad uneven, her lips pouty, and she was very soft-looking. He was greatly surprised when she opened her mouth to speak.

"Wot kind do you want, then?"

_British?_

He was even more surprised (though he shouldn'tve been) and disappointed (which he also should've been) to see her slip a hand into the man's. He squeezed and stroked her knuckles with his thumb.

_Dang. _

"Hmmm." The man considered carefully, putting a single finger to his lips and tapping with wonder. "Do you have…pineapples?"

Shawn leaped forward. "He does. And they are delicious." Howard, behind Shawn's shoulder, rolled his eyes. Rose giggled.

"Are they?" The Doctor raised his eye brows.

"Well, I happen to think so," Shawn said breezily. "Shawn Spencer." He thrust a hand forward. "Santa Barbara Police Department Consulting Psychic."

The girl lifted a hand to shield her eye, looking up at him with excitement. "A psychic, really?"

Shawn bowed his head eagerly. "Yes ma'am. And right now I'm getting a reading…you're from the UK?"

Luckily, she laughed, smiling easily. Her partner wasn't as easily impressed and stood back, slightly broodish.

"So, wot, can you read my mind right now?"

"Not exactly. But I can tell you your friend would seriously love a pineapple hot dog. It's like reach the gates of heaven the first couple seconds it's in your mouth. I would seriously consider purchasing one today, from this fine, fine vendor."

Howard rolled his eyes again, and turned back to his potential customers. "We do have pineapple. It's surprisingly popular in these parts. Ya interested?"

"I'll try it, yeah. Rose?"

Rose was conversing with Spencer, rather enthusiastically too.

"Rose, what do you want?"

"Oh," She looked up, startled. "Um, ketchup and mustard for me."

"Right."

A few minutes later they had their franks, and were being persuaded to accompany Spencer and his companion on a nearby picnic table. The Doctor was all for resisting, but Rose rather spend time with her new friend.

"He solves crimes, Doctor, with his psychic ability. It's that—"

"So, tell me." The Doctor said abruptly. "Just how many crimes have you solved?"

"Oh…" He exchanged a look with Gus. "Maybe a couple hundred. Maybe. I don't want to sound too conceited, but I'm pretty good at what I do."

"Swindle people out of their money?" The Doctor inquired flatly.

"Doctor!" Rose hit him lightly on the shoulder. He ignored her.

Shawn merely shrugged. "I'm not a paid consultant, so there is no swindle involved. No tomfoolery, no wayward monkey business."

"We're no monkeys." Gus felt compelled to add.

"Ah. That's fine then." The Doctor stood. "C'mon, Rose. We've got a lot to see."

"Oh! Are you sight-seeing?"

"Yes." Rose beamed. "Came here sorta by accident. Someone forgot to check the…um, compass."

"Did not!" Her companion protested.

She ignored him. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"Oh yeah. Try the aquarium. They have this killer whale with—"

"We'll be fine, thanks." The Doctor cut him off. "We've already got some plans."

"Do we?"

"Yes." He turned away from his partner. "We do. Thanks, but no thanks."

"Well that's fine." Shawn sat back, disappointed. "Well, I hope you have a nice time, and maybe we can catch up later."

"Probably not." The Doctor said firmly. "C'mon, Rose." He stood.

"Nice to meet you." Rose wiggled her fingers sadly. She stood as well, and followed the Doctor's retreating back. Once they reach the hot dog stand he stopped. Rose paused too, looking at her partner expectantly.

"You go ahead." He insisted. "I want just one more. Meet me at the beach."

Rose left without comment, merely shrugging. She was a little sore at having to leave her latest pretty boy. He watched her until she disappeared around the block. Then he made his way back to Shawn Spencer.

"Just wanted to say, before I go," He began. "Pineapples on a hot dog—pure brilliancy."

**-XXX—**

**I finished! I finished! Yeah!**

**Sorry it took so long. Between finals and my River series, things have been busy. **

**Speaking of my River series, I've started something similar to this, only with River Song as the main character. Please check it out if you're a fan at all. It's title the Mismatched Affair of Irreconcilable Lives. **


	31. Arguments Between Telly and Crisps

**Telly**

**Crips in Jackie's apartment while watching telly. Written as 9, could be 10. **

"Pass the crips." Rose Tyler ordered.

He had been looking at her toes at that particular moment, watching them wiggle in time with the obnoxious tune being emitted by the telly. At the sound of her voice, he unwillingly jumped out of his reverie.

"What?" The Time Lord blinked slowly.

"Crisps. Salt and Vinegar." She pointed toward the bright neon bag. He raised his brows pointedly. A sigh. "Please."

He smiled and passed the bag. Rose smiled in return, accepting the bag, and proceeded to stuff herself with crisps. The alien pulled the Barbecue Chicken bag off the coffee table for himself. Together they munched, watching the vivid colours of Jackie's new telly flash. She had bought it last week. Rose rather liked it, though the screen was smaller than their last one.

Her mother was, thank God, currently out shopping. Lord knew, that could take the entire afternoon, which was exactly what he had been hoping for.

"Do you have the Roasted Lamb?"

Her pert nose wrinkled at the words. "I don't think so."

"Pity."

"Not really."

"That's your opinion."

"It's a fact, actually." She stuck her tongue out, playfully. "You've really got no taste in crisps."

"And you've got no taste in television programs." He shot back, dropping the bag onto her lap and crossing his arms behind his head. "At all."

"Well, at least it's better than your fashion sense."

The arms dropped, eyes widened, and the head turned very, very slowly. The eyes met Rose's Tyler's amber gaze. Her jaw dropped slightly.

"Rose Tyler. You. Take. That. Back." He hissed. "_Now." _

And then he pounced.

The crisps bag flew out of her hands to hit the telly screen. She cried out as he slammed into her, crushing her face-first against the slightly-musty-smelling couch. Breathing heavily in her ear, he whispered, "_Today, your hair looks nappy." _

Rose shrieked and sat up. "NAPPY?"

"Nappy." He confirmed gravelly. It was tossed up into a messy sort of bun, a little frizzy.

"You've got big ears!" Rose blurted.

The Doctor blinked.

"Worse than Charles!"

"What?"

"You heard me!" She pointed. "Huge.

He opened his mouth, moving it wordlessly. Rose sat back, smirking.

Slowly, he glanced to the front door, than back to his companion. "I might have big ears…but I least my gob isn't the size of your mum's."

"Oi!"

"Right." He sat forward, retrieving his crisps again. "We can agree on that, then."

**-XXX—**

**A shorty for the heck of it. Thank you for all the reviews! **


	32. Just 'Cause

**Pancakes**

**The Doctor makes breakfast. Rose is fascinated. 9/Rose, because I miss him. **

He was whistling.

This was distributing, as he never whistled. Well, unless he was working on the TARDIS, and she would hum along with him, always out of tune. Or when cleaning the Time Router. And sometimes when he cooked-

Rose sat bolt-upright in her bed, throwing back the duvet at a speed only seen when she was running from monsters, aliens, or poltergeists. The Doctor never cooked. Never ever. He only done it twice in the time she'd been here—once on her first night he made her tea and biscuits (if you can call that cooking) and again when she was ill (and it had not turned out well at all).

Was he making breakfast? Why would be making breakfast?

She threw on a robe and slippers, then ran to the kitchen, three doors down the hall. Once she reached the door, she paused.

The air smelled of cinnamon and blueberries and butter. Rose inhaled the warm scents, feeling instant comfort. But that was quickly washed away with the fear of the Doctor in the kitchen. She crept into the room slowly.

He faced the stove top, whistling a merry tune. The theme to _Love Boat, _or some tosh like that. He was so old fashioned sometimes. She could see a bright plastic red spatula in his hand, and could just make out a frying pan on the stove top. The dining area, a corner made up a vintage vinyl booth, where they usually ate, was bare of utensils. Instead, when she peered into the adjoining formal dining room, she could see the hand-carved cherry wood table, decked out in the Doctor's finer breakfast and tea wear, complete with a table cloth, flowers, and a carafe of orange juice. But that wasn't the worst of it.

For ages, Rose had begged the Time Lord to consider wearing something besides his armor of leather. "Try some colour, or a different material at least!" No matter what she said, he steadfastly refused, saying, "I like it. 'nd that's that."

Today, it seemed, he had decided to heed her advice.

He wore only boxer, an undershirt—wife beaters, her mum called 'em—and a pair of pristine white socks.

Rose could only blink.

For the first time since she'd met him, the Doctor looked comfortable, at ease in his environment. One socked foot tapped alongside his whistled tune. His shoulders were no longer stiff and boxy, and his neck looked actually flexible, for once. He sighed happily as he made a complicated motion with the spatula. Every inch of him seemed to be relaxed.

She eased out of the room slowly, watching the alien's back as he continued to whistle.

"Morning, Rose."

Rose Tyler winced at the greeting. She had been hoping to make a very quiet exit. That had plan apparently failed.

"Morning!" She said brightly. "Um, I thought maybe you…were busy? Thought I'd just pop in for some more sleep, but, uh—"

"I am busy. Making breakfast." He was equally bright, though significantly less fake about it. "Pancakes!"

He offered forth the frying pan, showing her the two round cakes sitting on the iron. Bacon sizzled in a smaller pan still on the stove. A pile of pancakes sat on the counter, resting on a plate. Each was a golden brown, fluffy and thick. She admired them loudly. The Doctor beamed at her praises.

"So, any special reason for…all this?" She gestured to the room at large, include him and his attire.

"Nope, none at all." The Doctor's grin widened. "Just 'cause."

"O-kay." She said slowly.

"These are nearly done, shall we…?" He motioned toward the dining room.

"Yeah."

He told her to sit, so she went to wait, pouring them both glasses a orange juice. Soon the Doctor arrived bearing the pancakes, bacon, and a bowl of fresh fruit salad. After he set the food, the Time Lord stood back, wriggling his eyebrows. Rose laughed when he produced a garden-fresh pink rose from seemingly nowhere, plucking it from the air and placing it in a vase beside her plate.

They sat and began to eat. The pancakes were brilliant, soaking up the syrup like a fluffy sponge. The bacon was perfectly crispy. Rose just about died over the fruit salad, claiming it was the best she'd ever had. The Doctor made easy conversation, going over the exact details of the meal's creation (finding a cook book had proved to be quite a chore, as had the flour), the coming days plans, and, "Oh, would you like some tea?" She politely declined. When the meal wound down, she asked again.

"Are you sure you didn't…" She hesitated. "…do this for some reason or another?"

"Well, perhaps." He sat back in his chair, glancing at the ceiling. "I had a bit of a reason."

"Which was?" Rose asked pointedly.

He smiled softly. "It's my birthday, Rose."

For a moment, she sat, confused. "Birthday?"

"You know, the celebration of the day a person was birthed?" He looked at her as though she was daft.

"I know. I just didn't realize…." Rose frowned. "You should've told me!"

And she punched him in the arm.

"OW!" He rubbed his arm. "Nice birthday gift, Rosie."

"Why did you tell me? I would've gotten you something!"

"You already did. A smarting bruise on this shoulder."

"I could've made you breakfast!"

"It doesn't matter. We've had a nice time, haven't we?" He asked gently. "Rose, I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to make a big fuss over it."

"But why?"

The Doctor shrugged. "It's not a big deal, Rose. Honest."

"But, it's you birthday. Won't you let me do anything special."

"Just having you here is special."

She sighed, standing to hug him tightly. "You're silly."

"I'm about to die from all this specialness."

Rose punched him again. "I don't think that's what is ailing."

"You're right." He agreed.

"So, you'll drop me off at Henrick's to pick you up something. Just an hour."

"Wha—"

"It's your birthday." She said sternly. "You're getting a gift."

"Just having you here is a gift, Rose, I don't need nuffin' else." He assured her seriously.

"Sweet of you." She patted his cheek. "But that's not going to cut it."

He groaned as she tugged his arm, leading him toward the console room. "It's my birthday, shouldn't you be respecting my wishes?"

"No." Was all she said, before cheekily grinning her way out the TRADIS doors.

**I can't remember is this my prompt, or one of yours. I just found it hiding on in my One Shot file. I hope you enjoy it! Please review, and once again, if any of you are River fans, please check out my one shot series **_**Mismatched Affair of Irreconcilable Lives. **_


	33. Learning the Rose Way

**Learning the Rose Way**

**A prompt by Who's Clues. Thank you very much, m'dear!**

**Rose teaches the Doctor how to make banana bread.**

**-XXX-**

All the ingredients rest upon the stainless steel countertop. The bottles of spices gleam, reflecting the pendent lights that hung above the bar. Eggs, white and smooth, sit nestled in their cardboard home, a carton printed with green fields and gold suns. Across from the eggs, two tall glass canisters of flour and sugar stand respectively. A solid stick of butter rests next to them. And finally, the bananas.

They are slightly spoiled, their yellow darkened with freckles of black. The flesh gives to the touch, allowing fingers to sink slightly.

When they enter, hand in hand, she gives him a warning looking. The Doctor sighs.

"I don't think I need to learn how to make it, Rose."

She shakes her head. "You want it so often, you ought to know how to take care of it for yourself."

"But _you—" _

"Can't always cater to your wants." Rose finishes. "So, we'll start with the oven."

She directed him in setting the temperature, then showed him how to grease the glass bread pan with a stick of butter. He whined, wanting to use spray grease, but she insists.

"Butter will work much better. Besides, it's the old-fashioned way."

The Doctor grumbles something about old-fashioned being overrated. Rose calls him out on it.

"Then what do you call this ship?"

"Oi, that's not the same!" He snaps.

Rose ignores the sharp tone. Setting up the mixer, she gave a quick lecture on the ins-and-outs of mixtures. Together they measured and poured in the butter, sugar, and eggs, then mixed until it was fluffy.

"Okay, now the bananas."

Cheerfully, he whips three out of the fruit bowl that sat on the dining table, grinning. "Ripe enough."

Rose eyes them carefully. "Yeah, that'll do."

Under her instruction, he peeled the fruit, then cut the three tubes into chunks. Using a fork, he mashed the fruit into a white-ish, yellow-ish mush. Rose made a face. No matter how many times she made this, that part always grossed her out. _Slightly._

While he made banana mush, Rose combines the dry ingredients—flour (two cups), baking soda and powders (one teaspoon of each), cinnamon (a pinch), cloves (two pinches) and a single teaspoon of salt-in a separate bowl. She hums, with the Doctor joining in, getting very passionate in the choruses. Laughing, Rose had to eventually push him back when he began using the banana-mush-covered spoon as a microphone, swaying in time with the words.

Once they complete their respective jobs, they regroup. Rose cautiously stands by as the Doctor precariously pours the banana mush into the wet ingredients. After they were appropriately combined, she guides him in stirring in the dry ingredients. He stirs vigorously until the flour just disappears into the liquids.

"Very good," Rose praises. "Now, it goes into the pan…." She took the bowl, crossing to the opposite counter where the glass bread pan lay. The Time Lord followed curiously.

The gloopy off-white mixture did not resemble bread in the least. It's not even close to dough. He has he doubts.

Rose pours the mixture into the pan gently. It goes in without effort, though she still reaches for a spatula to scrap the last few bits around the edges out. When she's finished, the Doctor practically begs for the spatula, which she surrenders. One last sprinkling of cinnamon and brown sugar, and she slide the pan into the oven, closing the door with a cheery snap. Rose sets the timer, and steps away.

"Now what?" The Doctor asks.

She eyed the now-clean spatula in his grasp. "Now, you wash all of these." She gestures to the various bowls, utensils, and mixer.

"But—"

His words are lost as Rose backs out of the kitchen, beaming widely. "Your idea, your mess!"

And with that, she is gone. All that can be heard is the hummed theme of _The X-Factor. _

The Doctor turns to the pile in the sink.

"Where is the dish soap?" He mused aloud.

-**-XXX—**

**So, personally, I haven't made banana bread in years, so I had to Google a recipe. It's on the Food Network website, if you're interested. **

**This was a prompt by Who's Clues, who wanted to see both 10 and 11 with banana bread. Look for 11 next week, maybe?**

**Also, I was wondering  
if anyone of you have a Tumblr? If you do and you would like to follow me, stay  
updated on my progress, send prompts, questions, have chats about our dear  
Doctor, etc, you can find me at .com/****Follow me, and I'll  
most likely follow you. **


	34. Pop

**Pop Rocks**

**Ten II/Rose**

**Pete's World**

**Another lovely prompt by a Who Down in Whoville.**

**-XXX-**

"These," he declares solemnly. "Are brilliant."

Following this statement, he unhinges his jaw once more to pour the tiny red-colour crystals out of the paper pouch onto his tongue. A delightful popping sounded, and he shivers with pleasure. I giggle at his expression-relaxed and puppy-dog-ish. Much different from the keen, concentrated look I've seen lately.

For the first time in a week, we're both out of the office. No invasion threatens the planet, no alien diseases, mysterious deaths, lights, or cases of mental illness, no blue grass, impending explosions in large public areas, etc. For the first time in a long time, we are free and together.

The first thing he wanted to do was get candy. I had complied, taking the bounding half-Time Lord into the first corner convenience store we saw on our route. He bought beer, chocolate, licorice whips, biscuits, cream-filled chocolates, caramels, banana taffy, and Pop Rocks.

Upon seeing the blue, green, red, and multi-coloured packets, he had squealed loudly, pointing. "Rose, Rose, we've got to—"

Much like a small child.

I winced. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Get 'em, O On Coming Storm."

The Doctor scowled. I smirked heavily, rolling my eyes.

He got two packs of every flavour. I didn't even try arguing. It was pointless, futile. He was determined to get his candy.

Now we sat in the park, his jacket (a copy of the one he'd owned when we travelled, made by Pete's most excellent seamstress) spread on the ground beneath us. We sit back on our elbows, sneaker jiggling in time with the birds and our own mental tunes. I wear sunglasses, my face tilts toward the sun, soaking in the afternoon light. He's leaning against my shoulder, head flung back, enjoying his candy. I can still hear the faint crackling being emitted from his mouth.

"Do you want any?" He shakes the pouch in front of my face.

"Nah." I lean forward for my beer instead. The Doctor isn't a huge fan of beer. He'll drink it, occasionally, but it isn't his first choice. I offer the bottle forth, and he accepts, taking a small, delicate swig. "But could you pass the caramel?"

He does, flinging the bag forward so quickly about a third of the pink cellophane-wrapped candies land on my lap.

"S'worry," He apologizes around his mouthful of Pop Rocks.

I laugh. "It's fine…Luke."

For a second we both freeze, staring at one another. As he has joined the domesticated world, the Doctor decided he ought to have a real, proper name. I still don't know his Gallifreyan version, but he said Luke was a close enough match.

I have to force myself to use it. He's always been the Doctor to me, always will be the Doctor to me. When we're in public I feel compelled to, though he's told me in private many times that it doesn't matter to him.

"People will find it odd, yes, but they don't matter." His eyes were serious. "It's what you're comfortable with, Rose. Use it."

After our awkward moment, I let my eyes slide down to a caramel, and begin unwrapping it hastily. "Sorry, sorry…sorry…."

I find both my wrists caught by a pair of very strong hands. The caramel falls back onto my lap, and I am forced to look up. His expression in emotionless, eyes carefully blank.

"Rose."

That is all he says for awhile. We stare again, unsure of where this is going. Finally-

"I don't care. I really don't. Just…call me Doctor, please." He pleads softly. "Obviously the name makes you uncomfortable. We only picked it out for the legal matters, Rose, not so you would have to do this—" A wide, painful gesture is made between us. "-every time."

Shrinking as best I can, I avoid eye contact.

"It's fine." I insist.

He counters quickly. "No, it's not. Not at all. Not if every time you try calling me that name, you're going to remember that _I'm not him." _

At these particular words, I flinch. His grip on my wrists doesn't falter.

"But you are." I whisper. "Even with the Donna bit, and the half-human. You're my Doctor."

His expression softens by a fraction. "Your Doctor." He repeats.

My wrist slips from his grasp, and I gently touch his face, watching his eyelids drift close.

"It's a hard transition." I say quietly. "And you're right, it does remind me…but that doesn't make you any less _you._"

The eyes remain closed. I take this as an invitation to proceed.

"I'll always love him," I continue. "He showed me the universe. He made my life one hundred times better. He gave me an escape of sorts. But," I pause. "You brought me back to the Earth. You made my life a million times better. And you gave me a home. There is nothing like that."

He sneaks a glance under his lashes.

I go on. "He is my Doctor. I'll miss him, like I still miss the first him. But this is the better life, isn't it? We have stability. I'm going to grow old and die, knowing that you'll follow me."

"I'll always go after you, Rose."

It's a sweet promise. I smile. "I know."

For a while we just sit calmly, smiling at one another. We can't seem to find any words to say. He offers forth the caramel I dropped. I shake my head, instead reaching into his jacket pocket for a blue and black pouch. I rip off the top bit of paper and pour the blue crystals onto my tongue. The crackling sensation is instant.

I hadn't had these since I was a kid. As the crystals bubble on my tongue, I giggle quietly. It's a lovely feeling, addicting really. Sweet and bubbly, slightly tangy and sharp. They don't taste quite like I remember them. A little more sweet, a little less tart. That's alright, though. Sometimes change is a great thing.

**-XXX-**

**I don't like giving the Doctor a name, but felt it was necessary. I mean, he's living that life, getting a mortgage, etc. He needed a legit name. John Smith is good and well, but I just don't see Rose liking it any. **

**This prompt was brilliant. I've never really written any Ten II, and I did want to try him. Plus, Pop Rocks are amazing. I can totally see them being his favourite candy.**


	35. Breakfast in Bed

**Breakfast in bed**

**9****th**** Doctor/Rose**

**He told her she wasn't getting breakfast in bed until she earned it. **

"Wake up," He told her firmly, barging in without a single knock, thank-you-very-much.

Rose ignored the order in favour of snuggling deeply under the duvet. An hour-long standoff between the TARDIS inhabitants and a battalion of some species called the Carkekan had left her very weary. After that kind of stress, she deserved a full night's sleep. Or, considering that the TARDIS technically had no nights, a full sleep cycle. However, it would seem the Doctor had no intention of giving it to her. Probably had some interesting spider, or translated book he wanted to show her.

The Doctor wasn't standing for it. He tore off the duvet. "C'mon."

"No," She moaned pitifully. "Sleep."

"No, breakfast."

She cracked an eye open. "Wha—"

He stood by the bed, practically looming, with a silver platter she recognized from the sitting room in one hand. The scent of bacon, tomato, and tea overtook her. He had indeed brought breakfast. A high-fat, fully British breakfast. Rose moaned again.

"Breakfast?" She murmured. "Why?"

"Yeah," He grunted. "And if you want it, Rose Tyler, I suggest you sit up."

Rose struggled to a semi-sitting position. He sighed, reaching down with one hand to adjust the pillows. If she had perhaps been more awake, she might have marveled at his ability to balance the heavy tray with one hand while fixing her pillows. But she was not entirely alert, so she missed it altogether.

With a flourish, he presented the tray. Rose raised her brows. It was laden with toast, eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausage, orange juice, a sliced banana, tea, and fried potatoes. More than enough to feed her. She looked up.

"And this is for…?"

"What? Nuffin', I just decided to make you breakfast."

"But you said," Rose started slowly, still a little weary. "That I couldn't get breakfast in bed until…I earned it? So, what did I do to earn it?"

He shrugged uselessly. "Oh, did I really say that?"

"Yeah, ya did."

"Well, you got through yesterday. I think that's enough."

"Are…"

"Eat!" He urged, pushing the orange juice toward her. The force causes it to tip slightly, spilling a few drops of the yellowy liquid onto her napkin. Rose blinked and obeyed.

After a few moments of him broodily watching and Rose nervously consuming her bacon, she peeked over. "Are you going to sit?"

Almost grudgingly, he sat on the edge of her mattress. Rose smiled. "I don't think I can eat all of this by myself. S'a lot of food."

"Pity."

"Yeah, it is." She said pointedly. "Would you want to share…with me?"

"All right then," He agreed, taking a fork out of one of the many mysterious pockets on his eternal leather coat. Rose suppressed a smile.

This was the exact reason he had made her delivery breakfast, the Doctor mused as he stabbed a tomato. It was simple, really, and obvious at that. She was Rose, being Rose. Sweet and generous and kind. She had earned it.

**Hey, I know it's been a while! Sorry 'bout that, my life has been just trip after trip. I've been working on my ACT and general senior stuff. Also, I have finally turned to start on my novel. It's an original work, a mixed genre of YA and fantasy, though fantasy is just a small part of it. Anyways, updates might be far and few with school about to begin and the novel. Oh, and I'm out of prompts. Anyone got a good quick one? **

**Thanks for reading! **


	36. Ramen Between Friends

**Ramen Noodles**

**Rose pre-TARDIS, making ramen in her flat. She's got a cold and needs some warming up. A strange fellow is making an aweful lot of noise outside. So, she invites him in. 8/Rose. **

**This is for ****Wolf spirit of the northlands,**** who sent a simple, but very inspiring prompt. I currently have a second part to this waiting in my **_**Cravings **_**folder! It's a 10.5!**

**Also, I've gotten a very nice one from ****My Beautiful Ending ****that I think will be a 10. I feel like I've been forgetting David a bit—lately it's been 10.5 and 9. And, last but not least an 11/Marshmallow bit for ****Who's Clues. **

**Do you guys want to see some pieces without Rose? Like a just Doctor, or just Doctor-and-other-companion bits? I absolutely refuse to write Martha (nothing personal, I just don't watch the third series at all, so I wouldn't even know where to begin with characterization), but I could do some others if you would like. **

**-XXX-**

"_Ahhh—ahhh—choooooo!" _

Jackie winces from her seat on the couch. From where I stand in the kitchen, I glare.

"Sorry my illness disrupts your programming." I murmur under my breath. "Can't help it."

My mother sighs heavily. "I'm sorry, Rosie, it's just hard on my ears, love."

"Yeah, well think about how it feels on my throat." I sneeze again, following it up with a few harsh coughs. My hacking sets her on edge.

For the last three days, I've had the sniffles. Only recently, it's turned into full-on sneezing and a nasty cough. Also, my chest has been aching, and my throat sore. My voice doesn't just sound funny now; it's starting to go out on me. I sound like a twenty-year smoker. Unfortunate, seeing as I quit just five months ago to prevent such trouble. Mum reckons it's something I picked up at work. With several hundred people drifting through the department store on a daily basis, I can see her point.

"Alright, sweetie," She says after my seventh coughing fit. "I'll pop down to the druggist to see about getting you some drops. Maybe some cough medicine, too."

"Please."

"And I'll put the kettle on before I go." She stand, crossing to the breakfast counter. Once there she leans across to pat my cheek. "You alright to be alone for a few minutes? Won't take me but twenty minutes…"

"'S okay, Mum," I assure her, tightening my bathrobe around my waist. It's worn, a little threadbare, and faded from all its washings. What was once a bright purple now has turned to a light lavender. Not that I mind terribly. Lavender is pretty. "I'll be fine. Done this before, remember?"

"Yeah, I do." She's in the hall now, putting on shoes and shoving on her jacket. Purposeful, she comes back into the kitchen to kiss me firmly on the cheek. "Don't die while I'm out."

"I will try my very best."

She snags her hand bag off the hook, leaving me to my own devices. Which, at the moment, consists of making Ramen Noodles in the microwave. If I wanted, I could try chicken noodle soup. However, I'm feeling far too sick and far too lazy to exert myself that far. It's chicken flavoured Ramen. I mean, close enough, right? There are noodles in it. It tastes sort of like chicken. Works for me, at the very least.

The water reaches a boil after about five minutes after Mum leaves. I put in the noodles after crunching them up against the counter, then lean back. My tea sits steaming by the toaster, the bag floating on the very top like a soaking pillow. It's an Earl Grey blend, not my favourite. Actually, we're out of my favourite. I should've asked Mum to pick me up some more at the druggists….

_** "BANG!"**_

I jump wildly, scared out of my skin by the noise.

From outside, I hear some shuffling, then another loud _**"BANG!" **_It's clearly coming for the railing, near our door. I creep to the kitchen door way, listening intently.

I can tell it's not a gun. I've heard gun shots before, and that's not it. A large part of me whispers _"Go away, quick!" _Really, I ought to stay in the kitchen, wait it out, maybe call Mum and tell her to hang around the druggist's for a bit longer. But instead, I advance toward the door. The shuffling continues, but the banging has stopped entirely. With a breath, I sink to my knees to come level with the mail slot. After raising the flattened brass, I peek out of the narrow hole.

What greets me is a pair of knees. I follow them up to see a velvet frock coat, silver waistcoat and white cotton cravat. This resembles one of the costumes used in last semester's Victorian-themed "The Hounds of Baskerville," which is the only way I can remember the terminology. A mass of dark curls brush the shoulders of the frock coat, though for the life of me I cannot make out a face. Whoever he is, he is leaning quite heavily on the metal railing, breathing as though he's just been punched in the gut. Hesitantly, I rise from my knees to look into the peekhole.

The stranger has a thin, angular face, with pleasant blue eyes that are currently scrunched in discomfort. I feel immediate pity, as it appears he is in great pain. Without hesitation, I open the door.

"Hello?"

He doesn't respond. The eyes have closed now.

"Um, hi. Can you hear me?"

One lid rises. "What?

"Sorry," I step forward, hands out. "I just heard a bang and went to check and…are you alright?"

He shuffles to face me, still clinging to the rail. "Ah, I'm a little worse for wear at the moment, though I should—ah," He stumbles, wincing with the motion. "Be fine in a few hours."

"Are you sure? Do you need some aspirin, or something?"

"No!" He jolts forward, eyes wide. "No! Not aspirin!"

I jump back, startled. "Sorry!"

"But thank you," He says hastily. "That's very kind. Not a whole lot that can help now, though. Point of no return, you know."

I don't. But I play along, nodding. "Some tea, then? I'm about to have a nice cuppa myself…."

The stranger smiles wanly. "Why not?"

"Alright then." I start for inside, then go back. "Do you need any help?"

"Oh, no. I'll manage." He assures me. He stumbles in. It's only when he's seated at the bar that I notice his leg. It's on the opposite knee, the one I couldn't see from out the mail slot; a long, bloodied gash. The tattered pant leg (which is a pity, seeing as those are not cheap pants—I work in a department store, trust me, I know) covers the worst of it, but I can see the reflection of a dark, wet liquid drying to his pale limb.

"Do you need anything for that?" I ask softly, nodding to the wound.

As though it's not obvious, he blinks slowly, then laughs and looks down. "This? No, no, it'll be fine, I promise you." He adds at my concerned stare.

"O-okay," I mumble. I turn to the kitchen to fetch another mug, pretending not to notice the blood dripping off of his boots onto our white tile. Mum would probably have a fit when she got home, even after she sees his leg. But that's Jackie, I guess.

I return with the cream and a sugar pot. He generously helps himself, stirring in a healthy measure of cream. When his sits back, sipping his tan-ish concoction, I see a flush of fresh color rush to his face. Smiling, I push a plate of biscuits his way too. While I stir my noodles, all the way across the kitchen, he nibbles on the stale ginger snaps. I am please to find him to be a very comfortable sort of person, just the sort you could drag in from off the street for a nice cuppa and a solid conversation, having never met before. Which is exactly what I'm doing now.

"So, you don't want any meds?" I confirm.

"No, thank you."

I watch him over my rim. "May I ask…what is with the period get up?"

He smiles. "It's for a drama I am participating in. Do you like it?"

Well, I have to admit it goes nicely with his shoulder-length chestnut locks. Before I can answer, I'm taken out with an attack of coughing. My lungs are practically in my throat, begging for me to end their abuse. My guest leans over the bar, brows furrowed with concern.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh, yeah," I manage weakly, doubling over. "Just got a bit of a cough. You know. Cold season."

He shakes his head. "That sounds far too wet to be a cough."

"S'probably nothing."

He looks doubtful. One hand flies to an inner pocket of his coat. The other motions for me. "Come here."

Withdrawing his slim, long-fingered hand, he produces a stethoscope. "May I?" He gestures toward my chest in the most gentlemanly manner possible.

I nod. "Why not?"

Wryly, he smiles again. "I'm a doctor, actually."

"Ah, that's why."

"Probably," He agrees, a little too cheerfully for a man with a bloody leg (which is still dripping onto the tile). With no further ado, he pops the ear pieces in and settles to listen to my chest, instructing me at various intervals to breath in and out. I comply.

After several moments of listening he drops the metal end having reaches an apparent conclusion. "You might have pneumonia." He tells me seriously, tucking the stethoscope back into his pocket. "I can't know for certain. But you should probably be in bed, have some hearty soup, sleep until you can get to a doctor."

"But you're a doctor."

He shakes his head. "I mean one who knows your entire medical history. One who didn't just meet you in the last fifteen minutes. Now, where is your husband?"

"My…oh!" I gasp, shaking my head violently. With a quick motion I remove the CZ ring that rest on my wedding finger—it had been a late birthday gift from Gran two months ago. The only finger it would properly sit on was that one. "I'm not…attached. I live with my Mum, here."

"Ah." This response seems to please him by a fraction. "Sorry."

"No problem. I'm Rose, by the way. Rose Tyler. I just thought since you'd already gotten to second base, you might want to know my name."

He flushes. "Smith, John Smith."

"That's not generic." I quip. Then I cringe. "Sorry, you've probably heard that one."

"Only a million times."

"Sorry."

"Not at all. Now, I suggest a soup-"

"Would Ramen work?"

He falters. "What?"

I show him. John lifts my spoon, poking the processed noodles fretfully. "I…suppose so. Chicken is said to fight off infection. What did you say this was again?"

"Ramen Noodles."

"Naturally."

In response I slurp down a spoonful.

We spend another ten minutes discussing various subjects-from illness to jobs to noodles, then a brief splash of London politics, when he stands to go.

"I'm afraid I must be going now." He sobers. "There is a rather important changing of the guard I must attend."

This sounds a little barmy to me, but I don't comment. "Well, thank you for the advice. And it was nice meeting you, John Smith. Drop by again sometime, just perhaps not in the same state. And get your leg checked out, would you?"

"I am a Doctor," He winks. "Goodbye, Rose Tyler. It was brilliant meeting you. You make a lovely cup of tea. I do hope our paths cross again someday."

"Yes, that would be nice."

I show him out, watching his velvet-clad back disappear down the line of stairs, and then into the darkness of the night. Once he is entirely out of sight, I go to the bar to wipe up the dots of blood on the tile.

Five minutes later finds me on the couch watching _Big Brother _and Mum wandering through our front door.

"Sorry it took me so long, sweetie, the line at the chemist was a nightmare? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, Mum," I pause to flick off the telly. "Maybe tomorrow I ought to see Doctor Jenkins."

"Yes, of course dear. That's what I've been telling you all along!" She says, both of us knowing full well she hadn't, even though she probably should have. "Do you want your drops?" Mum thrusts the bad of cherry-flavour drops toward me. I shake my head.

"No, thank you. I think I'll just kip off to bed."

"Alright, sweetie."

That night I dream of far off planets, a man with an ever-changing face, and a blue box that can speak in your mind and is bigger on the inside. It's a myriad of colours, settings, faces. I'm spinning in a coral-like cavarn that pulses with life. It's utterly beautiful. I wake barely remembering a thing except for how exciting it felt. Like, somehow, it was all real. So very, very real.

When I drag myself to the kitchen, I happen to catch sight of the Ramen wrapper lying on the counter. I must've forgotten to throw it away last night in between the conversation with a Doctor John Smith, and my mother's arrival. I pick it up and note the expiration date on the back—which is a whole four months passed.

The dream suddenly makes some sense.

**-XXX-**

**There you go! Sorry if the 8****th****'s characterization is blurry—I am going off just the film, which I haven't seen too recently. I thought I might "shake it up" with him. **

**A couple of interesting points:**

**1. The Doctor was hitting his regeneration. He had just returned from Gallifrey. No, I don't know why he was in front of the Tyler's apartment, why don't you ask him.**

**2. He would've asked Rose to come away with him, except she was ill. **

**3. He was very, very glad to know she didn't have a husband/boyfriend.**

**4. I am super-very-extremely tired. Sorry about any mistakes. Hope you enjoy. **

**5. Thank you for the reviews! **


	37. But These Aren't Bananas

**But These Aren't Bananas**

**Prompt: A Who Down in Whoville**

_**Come up with some odd food that is indigenous to Pete's World that he ends up loving that Rose despises, or vice-versa.  
Or  
A Pete's world version of something that he loves that is completely different. He tastes it for the first time... His reaction...**_

**I picked number two. Hope you enjoy. I'm really enjoying working with 10.5. Sorry about the long-awaited update. I'm avoiding two essays, writing this.**

**-XXX-**

"It can't be." He says, deadpan. His normally bright eyes are flat, disappointed. Rose feels immense guilt. She probably should've warned him from the start. It just wasn't kind, to let him find out on his own. But she'd been busy, after all. It couldn't be that big of a deal. "I know things might be different, timey-whimey-wibbly-wobbly. But this is just…just…."

"Different?"

"…sick." He finishes, sneer playing across his lips.

"It's really not." Rose assures him.

"Yes, it is. Completely different! The colour isn't even—" He holds it closes to his face, squinting behind the tortoise shell glasses. A month after his initial arrival into Pete's World, they found he honestly did have weak eyes this time 'round. To his utter delight, they found a pair of specs almost identical to the pair he was fond of wearing around the TARDIS. "-close."

Rose grab it, examining the rubbery surface. "'Course it is. Just the lighting."

"Oh, so now that's changed too!"

"Doctor, it's not changed a bit."

Stubbornly, he crosses his arms and frowns. "They're not even similar. It's not the same yellow."

His companion groans loudly. "Why does it matter? So it's not a 'sunshine yellow' and more of a 'custard.' But at least they taste similar!"

"Similar?" He sat fully up right. "Oh no, no, no, no. No. Nowhere near similar, I mean the chemical composition in itself-"

And so he rambled. Rose, weary of the continual whining, made an executive decision. Without saying a word, she peeled the "too-pale" banana, waited for the perfect opportunity, and stuffed it, quickly, into her friend's open mouth.

_"At least _you_ don't have to deal with purple chips,"_ Were her final words before she sashayed away, leaving the half-Time Lord with banana lodged halfway down his throat.

**-XXX-**

**Wow, that was an overwhelming response. Thanks guys!**

**I never thought I would have to say this, but I ****do not ****need any more prompts. There are roughly twenty sitting in my Craving's folder waiting to be written. I ought to be good for a few months, haha. Once again, sorry about the long wait. College stuff has been occupying my days, along with the progress of my novel . **

**Hope you enjoyed this! **


	38. Cinnabon

**Cinnabon**

**Prompt by: NightDreamer**

**10/Rose, with references to The Christmas Invasion.**

**-XXX-**

"These are delightful!" I croon, spinning 'round the bench. A small eruption of warm, sugary goodness fills my senses, zealously overwhelming my tastebuds with pure cinnamon beauty. "Oooooooh."

Behind me, on the scrapped metal bench, Rose laughs, tossing blond waves behind her shoulder. "Alright, alright. C'mon, sit down! You're making a scene."

"Oh, Rose!" I moan. "Rose, Rose, Rose! Why have you never taken me here before?"

"Because I knew you'd do this." She murmurs, shying away from the curious glances we're attracting. Amusement still tinges her voice. "Besides, we've been to the mall before."

I pause to look around the shopping center. She was right, the florescent lights and faintly purple walls look vaguely familiar. A cavernous ceiling, lined with skylights covered with bird shite, brighten the crowded space. The scuffed floor (which is curiously sparkly) isn't recognizable, but that's explainable-I'm not one for staring at floors.

"When?"

"Last Christmas." She reminds me. "Well, after Christmas. Maybe the 27th. For Mum's gift, remember? You were all rude about dropping me off at Christmastime, and I didn't have a gift for her. Then, with a pending alien invasion, I didn't exactly have time to kip into the shops for a present."

"So we had to go after. Right. Right!" I grin widely, sitting beside her once again and plucking the paper boat out of her hands. Reverently, I select another warm, sweet wonder and pull apart the dough. Savoring the cinnamon flavor, I smile. Then, a thought occurs to me. "Wait, why would I come with you? Why not Ricky the Idiot?"

Rose scowls. "You had to, remember? Since it was all _your_ fault."

I pause. "Which part?"

"All of it."

Frowning, I tsk. "Come now, it can't have all been my fault. I mean, taking you to Christmas, I thought that would be a nice surprise. S'not my fault you didn't get a gift."

"Yeah, it was. 'Cos the time I did get to go shopping, we were attack, remember? Tin Santa Clauses? Killer Christmas Tree?"

"Oh. Right. But how's that my fault?"

"You're an alien magnet."

"And you're hanging out with the alien magnet!" I counter.

Rose rolls her heavily-made-up eyes. "Fair enough."

"Pass the Cinnabons."

Grudgingly, she passes the paper boat back my way. I consume yet another sweet roll, murmuring praise under my breath. This takes the irritation from Rose, letting her laugh once again.

As we're exiting the shop Mecca of London, I say casually, "We ought to come here again."

"Only if you're footing the bill for shopping."

I consider. "Alright."

Rose laughs loudly, catching more glances from passersby. This time, she ignores them, focusing only on me. Her eyes shine with good humor. "You do realize you'll be spending a small fortune on trainer and t-shirts alone. Plus, I've got to get you into the Men's Dressing Department. I swear, every time we eat you stain something. Especially your shirts."

"Fine by me." I shrug.

"Fine?" Rose stops in the middle of the walkway, staring. The people behind us make noises of discomfort, for we are blocking their path, but we ignore them. "We're talking about a lot of money."

"I know." I assure her. "But money is no issue."

"What?"

"Well, think of it this way; if allowing you to purchase a ludicrous amount of clothing for both of us allows me to have more of these beauties—" I lift the paper boat gravelly. "—then it will be money well spent."

**-XXX-**

**Two in one day! I guess this is my apology for making you wait. This one is about two-hundred words longer than the others. If I'm not too focused on other stuff today, I might come back and post a third. However, I have the ACT Saturday, and two essays to write. So…yeah. **


	39. Peanut Butter and Jelly

**Peanut Butter and Jelly**

**Prompt: ****Ace302**

**Alright….I'm going to try it again…**

**8! **

**An 8 year old Rose and 8****th**** Doctor regularly meet up for peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches in the park.**

** I wrote this in a hurry. Sorry. Hope you enjoy.**

**-XXX—**

He waits, as he always does, on the bench with the carvings. And, as always, traces with two fingers the letters-_The Doctor loves Rosie-pose. _

Though he cannot recall having etched the letters into the worn flesh of the wood, he knows it's him who has done it. The handwriting isn't his either, but he's sure. If he hasn't already done it, he might do it soon. Prior to 1994, naturally. Unless for some reason he travelled back to place the bench here. Then that would be a little odd. But not so odd, considering….

The note was sent on psychic paper nearly two days ago, plenty of warning, in his mind. Still, she is late. He cannot bring himself to mind, however, as it is just another few free moments to think, to breathe, to simply _**be**_**. **

He hears a small cough and looks over his velvet-clad shoulder to see the fair-mopped child approaching with brown paper bag. Tiny hands worried the fold line as she walks, stumbling slightly as every child does, on bright pink trainers. When she takes her place beside him on the bench, folding her legs beneath her primly (he knows they won't stay there for long; she cannot resist swinging them wildly and kicking up wood chips), he speaks.

"I thought you weren't going to make it."

"Mum was being sharp." Rose mumbles into her coat, which is a puffy purple thing lined with sparkling plastic fur. Two plump pom-poms sit on the ends of the hood's drawstring. It's both endearing and ridiculous."Squalling into the phone, and such."

"Oh. Was she angry with you?" He asks kindly.

"No, not me. Kevin," She says, making a face at the mention of her mother's latest fellow. The Doctor mimics the expression. He's seen this Kevin, from a distance. He did not appear to be the respectable sort, not a role model for any eight-year-old. He severely doubted Rose's mum, who ever she was, would approve if Rose dragged in that sort if she were about sixteen. But then again….

"How have you been Rosie-pose?"

As always, she giggles. "Quite good. Mickey 'nd me ran away last week."

"Ran away?" His heart freezes for a moment. It is truly strange, how with her all of his parental tendencies are push forth.

"Oh yes. But only for an hour."

"My, my. Did anyone notice you were gone?"

The child sighs. "Not 'xactly. At least, not until we told them. And then they were mad."

No need to ask who "_they_" were. In their few conversations, Rose had already outlined quite a reputation for Grandmum Smith and Mrs. Pete Tyler. Together they were the ultimate disciplinary duo. It was rather frightening, the pictures the eight-year-old painted with her vivid stories of the conclusions of her misadventures with one Mickey Smith.

She unfolded the paper sack as she spoke further of her week, outlining the temporary demise of a bully at school (after-school detention for two weeks following a "release" of dissection frogs in the kitchens and girl's lavatory), her new friend ( named "Shareen", or some other outlandish thing), and the latest trick Mickey taught her in his cousin's shop. By the time she's done, they both have a peanut-butter sandwich resting on napkins in their laps. The Doctor politely waits for her to finish her outline of the week before starting his sandwich.

"How long has it been since we last met?"

"Three weeks."

The Doctor frowns. He'd been certain he set the TARDIS back to two weeks. No matter. Rose doesn't appear to be at all offended by his tardiness. Then again, she's quite used to his odd schedule of comings-and-goings.

"What've you been doing?" Rose asks between bites. Her sandwich is crunchy peanut-butter and honey. He personally favours a more classic PB and J combination, with raspberry jam and creamy PB.

"Well, that's a bit of a secret." He tells her seriously.

"C'mon."

He warns, "Now, Rose."

She stares up, unblinking. He sighs.

"There's been a bit of a war." The Time Lord tells her gravely. "And I've been involved."

The child tilts her head. "How?"

He considers the question. "I suppose, I'm what you would call a general. I give orders."

"So…you don't fight?"

The fright quivering in those brown eyes is unmistakable. "No, Rosie, I don't fight anybody."

"And…you don't get hurt?"

"Not usually."

She lets out a breath of relief. "Good."

"Yes," He agrees. "Good."

For a few seconds they chew, savoring the sticky sweetness. After they finish the sandwiches, they polish off crisps and an orange soda each. They continue talking. Rose moves quickly away from the topic of war, moving on to gentler, simpler subjects for discussion. When an hour and a half has passed, the Time Lord stands, straightening the lapels of his velvet frock coat with the motion. Rose enjoys watching the green velvet ripple, likes watching his adjust his cravat.

Together they walk back to the Estates, slowly, to relish a few more minutes in one another's company. As odd of a pair as they may be, they give one another an easier disposition, a comfortable set of mind that can overtake their very senses and relax them into a very sweet state of being. Before they reach the rows of buildings, the Doctor stops.

"I've got to go away for a while." He tells her. "You won't be able to see me, not for ages. And don't go looking. In fact, if you see me on the streets, here in London, don't approach me. Wait until I come to you. Do you understand, Rosie-pose?"

Hesitantly, the child nods. The purple pom-poms follow suit, bobbing with her head. "Does this have to do with your war-thing?" She asks in a small voice.

Sadly, he nods too. "I'm afraid so. But it'll work itself out. I promise. Be good for me, Rosie-pose. Don't give your mum too much trouble."

He begins to walk away, but she flings herself toward him, burying her face in his stomach for a long hug. They stand, embracing, for a long time. Rose inhales the pure scent of lavender, candle wax, smoke, and…motor oil? It's a familiar smell, one she can recognize from Mickey's cousin's auto shop.

They depart bittersweetly. Both are glad of the meeting, but disappointed with the ending, the "maybe" of not seeing one another for a very long time.

**-XXX-**

It's almost four years before Rose gets another note on the mysterious paper that appears at will beneath her pillow. The handwriting upon it has changed drastically from an elegant, sweeping cursive to a blocky, messy sort of scrawl. _"Park bench, 3 o'clock, Sunday. Bring sandwiches?" _

All she has to do is think very, very hard _"Yes, of course" _and the words are automatically transcribed onto the slip of paper, which rolls itself up, and disappears with a faint _"pop" _and a flash of blue light. Just as it always did.

As she's making the sandwiches on Sunday morning, Rose allows herself to wonder, for the first time in year, just what has taken her friend, her mysterious Doctor, so long to return. She comes up with a dozen reasons while packing the soda, the sandwiches (raspberry and creamy, just as he always liked it), and the crisps. A hundred more as she walks to the park, brown paper bag (folded twice at the top) in hand. And then, possibly a million as she waits…and waits…and waits for him to arrive. Three o'clock passes. Then three-thirty. Then four. The hand on her wristwatch is just about to touch the half-hour mark for a second time when her concentration on the timepiece is interrupted by a soft voice.

"Is this seat taken?"

For a moment, she thinks it might be him.

Then, she looks up and sees not silky curls, a satin cravats, nor any colour of velvet frock coat. No, it's just a sheared skull, tight v-neck jumper, and a thick leather jacket. Not to mention cool blue eyes staring out of a hard-set face.

"No," She stutters after several moments of awkward silence. Then, everything goes to black and Rose Tyler slumps to the ground.

**-XXX-**

_ "I'm sorry to do this, Rosie-pose, truly. And I'm sorry I couldn't come to you before my regeneration was complete. I'm sorry I'm over an hour and a half late. I'm sorry you had to wait for me. And I'm sorry I couldn't have this last sandwich. But mostly, I'm sorry you'll never know how sorry I am. How much I wish you could know me, truly. Know me, or remember me at all, after this. _

_ I'm just so sorry. _

_ If there was a way I could change this, prevent you from the pain of it all, I would. However, it seems time doesn't want to be meddled with in that way-so we're stuck meeting. I can't change it, oh, but if I could… But then, that's a lie. Because I'm selfish. You might forget me, lovely, but I don't want to forget you. Not ever. _

_ It'll still hurt, though, mark my words. You won't know why it does, won't have a clue I've cause it, but boy, it'll come. Another thing I'm to be sorry for, I suppose._

_ With that aside, you must know that this is for you. I can't have you wandering around London with all that knowledge of me, all that Time Vortex energy swirling 'round you from contact with me. 'S not safe for either of us. So you see, has to be done. _

_ I hope one day, we might meet again. You won't remember me a speck, I promise you. But that won't matter. You'll still be Rose, 'n I'll still be the Doctor. One day, if this glory happens, I take you back to that park bench. We'll sit there, we'll share crisps and soda and peanut-butter sandwiches. We'll carve our names into the wood. _

_ And maybe, just maybe, you'll remember. Because nothing is ever forgotten. Just misplaced. _

_ Good-bye, Rosie-pose."_

**-XXX-**

**I hadn't expected to like this prompt as much as I did. It was fantastic. Once I got through the first paragraph, the ball just got rollin'! I really enjoy writing 8 and little Rose. Thank you Ace!**

**If you enjoyed it, please review! **


	40. Goodness

**Prompt: Marshmallows. ****Who's Clues**** asked for this (God knows how long ago), with 11, and I loved it. I thought it would be a great way to transition into writing Doctor Who again. **

**Sorry about the hiatus. Besides school work, Once Upon a Time has stolen my heart. If you're a fan, check out my OUaT business, if you're not, start watching it. Also, HP has been a bit of my focus. I have a 6 chapter short out, if anyone is interested. **

**I missed this loads. Please review!**

The hour was late-or, at least, he assumed it was, the others were asleep-and the ship had darkened its halls to give the environment a keen sense of night. Though he had spent several hours fiddling with a number of mechanical bugs, technical issues, tinkering with various controls, he was now bored out of his senses, and found himself in the kitchen, perusing the vast array of snacks. The counters weren't quite like the ship-that is, they were not in any way bigger on the inside than they appeared-but there were a lot of them.

He passed over the crisps, the biscuits, the fruit-leather thingies Amy seemed to enjoy, the chocolates, the carrot sticks, search for a certain…texture. A particular…consistency. The jell-o was no good, and he turned his nose up to the applesauce.

It wasn't until he'd reached the pretzels that he found it; the purple and orange plastic bag. The white pillows that smooshed when he squeezed the packaging, but rebounded quickly once he released the pressure. How very…human.

For several seconds, he struggled with the package before the plastic tore and he was allowed access to the sweet puffs.

Mallowy goodness hit his senses. As he savored three of the pillows, the Doctor rolled another between his fingers. Powdery, squishy, slightly curious in its texture. He decided promptly that he liked it.

Marshmallows. How very…Doctor.

He'd have to try this again. Maybe in coco, like Rory made Amy for breakfast some mornings, or in ice cream, or on sandwiches. Yes, he mused, sandwiches would be quite nice. The fluffy, puffy white goodness surely could be paired alongside anything, if one had the imagination. And no one could claim that the Doctor, the Oncoming Storm, lacked any imagination.


	41. Delicacy

**Prompt: Delicacy, by ****Angelic Toaster****, who said **_"I would just love it if you would write a Nine/Rose one about some strange alien delicacy that looks somewhat like a catfish/octopus hybrid and tastes like mushroom."  
_**Well, I sincerely hope you enjoy this….**

**I've missed DW loads. Hopefully I'll transition back into it soon-I have about 30 or so prompts waiting for me (some fans, most mine). Since the series ended this fall, I sort of lost focus. But now I'm back! Kinda. Please review! **

The gooey black eye reflect round little white suns of light dully. Rose eyes the slick, splotchy red skin, the thick ropes of…tentacles?...and the weird frilly gills. The whiskers jiggle slightly as the waiter sets the glided gold platter on the pristine table cloth. Fellow diners lower their voices, eyes flickering to the fish-thing, and a hushed tone falls throughout that section of the dining hall. Even the waiter acted with severe reverence. Across said table, the Doctor grins his wide, goofy smile.

"Samitrian Globberfish." he announces as the waiter backs away, bowing. The motion makes her feel uncomfortable-bowing reminds her of ranks, and Rose doesn't believe in having _betters_ or being _a better_. "In its prime season, straight from the river Cacai."

She has endured the squishy purple salad, the fuzzy cheeses, the sour wine. But Rose Tyler is not about to try this weird squidy-tentical-y-thing. It reminds her a river fish, the American mudsucker Catfish, and, if you looked at it the right way, an octopus. It sits on a bed of blue tuber vegetables, paired with yellow leafy things. She shivers.

"I am not eating this."

He does his best to appear surprised. "Oh, Rose. Come now."

"No. Look at it, all slimy. Staring. It's right creepy."

The Doctor shakes his head, withdrawing his knife and two-prong fork from the rolled up napkin. "It's a _delicacy." _

When he had told her, beaming, that they were going out, that he was taking her to a legitimate restaurant for an elegant dinner, Rose had high expectations. Her hopes soared when he arrived from the TARDIS wardrobe in a reasonably fine suit. They flashed out of the vortex to find themselves at the door of Samitria's best dining hall. The door was draped with flowing vines, and an extremely polite host welcomed them in. She became even more excited when the Doctor ordered a bottle of the house's finest wine.

But she is not going to eat any catfish-puss. No way. She had her limits.

"I have my limits."

"Rose, just one bite? One. It's been roasted in their version of an apple-vinegar sauce. The chef massaged the meat as the under chef stuffed it with Xenyn leeks. It was marinated with the most expensive aged rum. Please, Rose."

"It looks entirely gross."

He growls, exasperated. "Oy, I paid quite a bit for this table. And this fish didn't exactly fall out of the ceiling. At least try it, Rosie-pose."

She hates it when he calls her that, all condescending, so Rose lifts her fork and stabs savagely at the salad still on her plate.

"One bite," she allows.

He doesn't smile, but relaxes slightly. With a flourish (always a showman), he takes out the steak-er, fish-knife and begins to carve the fish. The wet sound the saw of the blade makes against the rusty flesh of the fish is utterly disgusting. Rose gags silently, hands tightening around the handle of her fork. The Time Lord removes a single flake of the creature. He gestures to her plate. Rose passes it over wordlessly, averting her eyes.

The flesh is a grey-ish colour. Like a slug. Or a boogey. She tries not to make any further comparisons as the Doctor serves himself a much heartier piece. When he looks up, Rose knows that it's time. She takes up her utensils, and cuts off one small triangle which she balances on the tip of her fork. The bustle of the restaurant gives her a moment to clear her mind before moving the fish toward her mouth.

It tastes…bland. Soft. Sort of like a fungi. A mushroom? Surprised, Rose opens eyes she wasn't even aware of closing.

"Wow."

"Yeah?" her companion asked warily. "Like it, do you?"

"Ah, well, it's a…delicacy."

The Doctor takes a second bite for himself, musing. "What's that mean, exactly?"

"When was the last time anyone liked delicacies. They're delicacies for a reason."

His brows raised, forehead crinkling adorably. It is times like now that remind her of just how young he really is at heart. "Oh? Interesting theory, you've got there, Miss Tyler."

"When was the last time you tasted a decent 'delicacy?'" she asks.

He smirks, but doesn't say a word. Rose promptly hits him on the shoulder.

"I don't count."

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